On Burning Embers
by Whitefang1407
Summary: Cassandra and the former Inquisitor have retired to a quiet life in the Hinterlands, but when a routine hunting trip goes awry, they find themselves faced with old enemies and new obstacles alike. Poetry, banter, and angst ensue. M!Lavellan and Cassandra pairing. Set three years after the Exalted Council meeting.
1. Chapter 1

**All rights go to Bioware. Comments/reviews are always appreciated! I have a few chapters planned for this one, and I hope you enjoy.**

* * *

"I fold." Tyrn Lavellan releases a sigh and sets the remainder of his cards down with a decisive _tap_. Across from him, Varric coughs in surprise.

"What? Already?" He asks, peering at him from over the top of his current hand. The dwarf's fingers drum lightly against the wooden surface as his brow drops low. "We're barely getting started!"

Tyrn raises an eyebrow at him. "Yes, on our _fourth_ game," he says with a chuckle. "I'm afraid I can't afford to lose to you again, my friend. You've nearly cleaned me out...the next thing I know, you'll be taking my wedding ring as payment."

"Ha!" Varric laughs at the thought, until he catches Cassandra's icy glare from Tyrn's side. "Right. Well, I'm sure we would both end up mysteriously dead if that were to happen," he adds.

Cassandra's mouth turns slightly upward in a smirk. "That you would," she confirms. Tyrn smiles and leans closer to her, furrowing his brow as he attempts to get a good look at her cards. "Hey!" She tugs them away from view. "No peeking."

"What? I'm not in the game anymore."

"So?"

"Well...I was thinking we could team up, you know. Wouldn't you like some help?" He gives her his best rendition of elven puppy dog eyes: something that, on occasion, is nearly impossible for her to deny.

Varric straightens from across the table. "What? No way. That would be completely unfair!" He protests. Cassandra looks to Tyrn, wholly unfazed by his pleading expression—much to his disappointment, but not to his surprise (his elven wiles only go so far, after all).

"As if it would be unfair when we're playing against _you_ , Varric," she says as she turns back to the dwarf, her eyes sparkling with humor. "But still...I would like to finish this one on my own, I think. Besides," Cassandra looks back at Tyrn with a determined expression, "this is what we practiced for. Is it not?"

"Hold on." Varric leans forward and narrows his eyes at the couple. "Are you saying you guys have been... _practicing_ Wicked Grace, just so you can beat me?" Tyrn clears his throat to suppress a laugh.

"You can hardly blame us. It gets quiet around here, anyway, and Wicked Grace is a good way to pass the time." He scoots back from the table and pauses behind his wife, leaning forward to press a gentle kiss to her temple. "Maker smile upon you," he whispers. "You'll need it." Cassandra releases a snort of laughter as he straightens and she shoves him hard, causing him to stumble slightly as he ambles toward the kitchen, snickering.

"Well, I must say I'm flattered," Varric quips as Tyrn enters the kitchen and examines their supply of food. _How did we run out of meat so quickly_? He wonders, frowning at the empty rack. _A course of vegetables won't do for Varric. I don't think he eats anything green_. He hears the dwarf continue from around the corner, "But sadly, that practice hasn't seemed to help you two very much." Tyrn rolls his eyes, even though his dwarven friend can't see him, and reaches for a pinch of dried tea leaves and a mug. Cassandra mutters something that he doesn't catch.

When he returns to the den, the two are buried in their cards, faces scrunched in concentration. Tyrn leans nonchalantly against the wall and takes a sip of his tea. Varric plays a knight card, sliding it onto the table with two fingers before returning to his accustomed habit when deep in thought: drumming his fingers on a nearby surface. The _patter_ serves as background noise as Cassandra sets out a card of her own. Varric grunts. The tapping increases.

"Stop that," Cassandra growls, her dark eyes snapping up to the dwarf. He grunts in mock surprise.

"Stop what?"

"That tapping. It's distracting."

Varric leans forward, his lips turned upward in a smirk. "Why, Lady Seeker, that's part of the game," he says.

"Tapping your fingers against the table is _not_ part of the game."

The dwarf chuckles and leans back again in his chair, peering at her with a knowing expression. "This is a game of deception and tactics, right?" He asks, thumbing through his cards. "If my tapping is distracting you, then it's _working_. It's part of my tactics—my battle strategy." Cassandra releases a disgusted noise through her teeth and hunkers down in her chair, as if to escape the rhythmic _tap-tap-thump_ coming from Varric's fingers. She looks up at Tyrn with her eyebrows raised; he returns her glance with one of his own—a mixture of amusement and pity. Cassandra draws a card from the top of the deck and frowns. Tyrn takes another sip of his tea, savoring the earthy taste, and sighs.

"How's the tea, Stumpy?" Varric asks, turning to look up at his friend. Tyrn releases a chuckle at the nickname—it still makes him laugh, even after three years of having only half of his left arm—and smirks.

"It's quite good. Would you like some?"

"Ah, no thanks."

"I thought not." The elf runs his thumb along the edge of the mug. "We do have some ale, if you would prefer."

Varric gives him a half smile at this. "As long as it's not that Qunari stuff, that would be perfect. Thank you." Tyrn gives him a slight nod and retreats back into the kitchen, glass clinking as he prepares the drink. He pulls a second mug down for Cassandra and uses the remainder of the hot water to make her some tea.

"So, Varric," Cassandra begins from the other room. "How is Bianca? The person, I mean. Not the crossbow."

The dwarf grunts noncommittally. "Oh, you know, we write letters and stuff. She's a little busy with... _family_ issues at the moment. It's been a few weeks since she's written."

"I see."

"Yeah. But hey, her parents haven't tried to have me killed in the last month, so, you know, that's a plus."

"Uh-huh."

Tyrn adds a spoonful of honey and a sprinkle of cinnamon to Cassandra's tea—enough to be noticeable, but not overbearing—and carefully brings the two beverages back to the den. Varric raises his mug of ale in gratitude before taking a swig. Tyrn rests Cassandra's tea beside her and brushes her arm with his hand, a brief but affectionate gesture, then retrieves his own mug from the kitchen and sits down beside her.

"Thank you," she says upon his return. Her brown eyes are warm and soft. He loves seeing her like this—away from the burden of her duties as a Seeker. Oh, she still frets over things that need to be done (indeed, he has had to pry her away from their desk—piled high with various books and reports—on more than one late evening, and she him), but when they agree to close the thick volumes and shuffle away the papers, she comes up for air as a bird may spread its wings and take flight. Her smile comes more easily, her eyes more prone to glow, and Tyrn is suddenly and unbearably grateful for the simplicity of being close to her, both in and out of stressful times.

Such are his thoughts when he realizes he's been staring at her rather intensely; Cassandra gives him a worried frown, searching his face.

"What is it?" She asks.

"Hmm?" He clears his throat. "Oh, ah, nothing." Tyrn shifts awkwardly in his seat and sips his tea. Cassandra's cheeks turn slightly pink as she turns her attention back to the cards in her hand, content to let the moment pass in light of present company.

"You two are strange," Varric remarks, as he is, apparently, _not_ content to let the moment pass. "I mean, not really a _bad_ kind of strange. It's endearing." He slides a card onto the table and rubs his chin in thought. "Know what I mean?"

Cassandra narrows her eyes at the dwarf. "No."

"Not even a little?"

"No." Cassandra lays down a card and thumbs through her remaining hand, frowning, although the edge in her voice is softened by amusement. Tyrn leans closer to the table and tries to predict which card she will play next.

"Well," he says, "we _are_ quite strange. Cassandra, especially."

His wife's attempt at a cold glare falls short as her eyes flick to his. "Oh? I think that, out of the two of us, you are far more strange than I."

"She may be right, Stumpy." Varric takes a card from the top of the deck and peers over at his friend. "You had the anchor, after all."

"Mmm." Tyrn grunts in half-amused agreement. "Granted." Cassandra gives him a playful bump with her shoulder and raises an eyebrow.

"Still though, let's not get too far down Cassandra's list of weird shit. At the very top will be her love for _Swords and Shields_ , I think." The dwarf laughs, and Tyrn stifles a snicker of his own. Cassandra chuckles in spite of herself.

"Now, Varric," Tyrn starts, watching as his wife puts down another card, "since you're the author of _Swords and Shields_ , doesn't that make you equally strange, if not more so?"

"Heh." The dwarf takes a swig of his ale. "It probably does, Stumpy. It probably does." He pauses for a moment, tips his head to the side as he examines his hand, then seems to come to a decision as he lays a card on the table. He is in the middle of another drink when Cassandra slaps a final card down. Varric coughs and leans forward, sputtering, as he surveys the playing field. His eyes dart up to Cassandra's after a moment; a smile slowly spreads across his face. "I don't believe it," he says. "It looks like all that practice came to fruition, after all. Well played, Seeker."

"Ha!" Cassandra takes a long sip of her tea and smiles widely. "I can't believe I actually won!" Unable to contain her sudden excitement, she scoots away from the table and stands. The dwarf sighs and pushes his stack of silvers her way, but she shakes her head. "Thank you, but I think the bragging rights are payment enough for me." Tyrn raises his eyebrows at Varric, who rubs his chin in thought.

"Bragging rights?" The dwarf asks. "Let's not get ahead of ourselves, now. You do realize this is one out of, what, at least twenty or thirty games over the last few years?"

"The first of many," Cassandra remarks. She reaches down to scoop up the cards, sorting and stacking them in neat piles as Varric opens his case and puts them away.

"I'll never hear the end of this, will I?" he asks, looking up at Tyrn as the elf stands.

"Nope." Tyrn chuckles to himself and takes their empty mugs to the kitchen. Seeing the dwindled supply of meat once again, he deposits his burden on the counter and grunts. "Cass?"

"Yes?" His wife's reply drifts from around the corner.

"I'm afraid we're out of meat again. I'll need to go hunting." Tyrn scrubs the dishes until they are clean, then carefully dries them and sets them in their rightful places. He and Cassandra are both particular when it comes to having a clean, orderly kitchen; Tyrn suspects it is because they have never had one of their own before (he, coming from a Dalish clan, and she, coming from a large enough family that kitchens were generally managed by servants). To have one of their own has been a strange, foreign thing—a place of art and effort and experimentation that they have both come to love.

Cassandra steps into the kitchen as he is finishing and frowns at the empty meat rack. "Hmm. Did we really finish the rest of that bird yesterday?"

"Apparently." Tyrn shrugs. "Looks like we underestimated Varric's appetite."

Cassandra raises an eyebrow at him. "Varric's? Or yours?"

"Perhaps a bit of both." Tyrn smiles, and they regard each other quietly for a moment. Cassandra's eyes meet his: deep brown against winter blue. Then he steps closer and reaches up to smooth an unruly section of her short, jet-black hair; he never fails to wonder at how soft it is.

"Did someone mention hunting?" Varric comes around the corner and stops short, looking suddenly more than a little uncomfortable. Cassandra clears her throat and turns to face him. "Uh, sorry," the dwarf stammers. "Do you guys need a minute to, ah, make out or something?"

Tyrn releases a chortle of laughter as his wife rolls her eyes heavily. "Sorry, Varric," he says. "And yes—I need to go for a hunt. I haven't been able to find much in the way of larger game around here lately, though. Cassandra and I have actually been meaning to take a longer trip—maybe travel further up through the hills, find some better options. Ram or bear, perhaps."

"Huh." Varric angles his head back, considering. "You know," he drawls, "I think Kirkwall is in good hands for the next week or so…."

"Hunting trip?" Tyrn's lips turn upward in a smile.

"It'll be just like old times. What do you say, Seeker? The three of us, the great outdoors, the limitless possibilities for making fun of your hunting skills…." Varric tips his head in question.

"Oh, please. I've done plenty of hunting in my time," Cassandra growls.

"Sure," he quips, "If by 'hunting' you mean clanking around in that armor of yours and flushing out the game while Tyrn and I do the hard part."

"Very funny, dwarf."

"I thought so."

"Anyway," Tyrn presses in, his eyes bright with amusement, "I think it's a good idea. Let's take a few days and enjoy the trip. Cass?"

His wife looks to him, her mouth turned upward in a lopsided smirk. "Yes, let's. I'll wear lighter armor," she gives Varric a pointed look at this, "but I'm still bringing my shield. You never know."

"Right," Varric agrees with a raise of one eyebrow. "Bears." Cassandra sighs and disappears down the hall to gather a few supplies.

Tyrn looks down at Varric with a thoughtful expression. "That was generous of you," he says, nodding toward the case of Wicked Grace cards in his hand.

"I don't know what you're talking about," the dwarf grumbles.

"Uh-huh."

"Ah hell, Stumpy," Varric's eyes flash mischievously, "I did it more for me than for her. She might have beheaded me if I won again."

"Ha," the elf grunts in amusement. "And she may very well behead you if she finds out you let her win, as well."

Varric rubs the stubble on his chin in thought. "That's...a fair point," he concedes. "Let's keep this under wraps, shall we?"

"Agreed."

* * *

"Did you pack the rest of those tea leaves?"

"Mm-hmm."

"What about an extra blanket? It's cold this time of year."

"Of course."

"And the straps for your dagger? Did you finish curing the new ones?"

"Yes, dear." Tyrn adjusts the final clasps on his crafted arm and turns it over a few times before sliding on his hunting jacket. The blade appendage fits snugly over the end of his residual left arm, at once a crude replacement and a grim reminder of his missing limb. While the dagger-length blade does not allow him to practice the art of "true" dual wielding—after all, he cannot adjust the blade during a fight as he might have shifted his grip or twirled his weapon before—it serves its purpose well enough. Tyrn crafted the device (with Varric's help, as he found that one-handed smithing was not very efficient) shortly after the Exalted Council meeting; the obsidian blade, elegantly curved and deadly sharp, glints as he tugs down his left sleeve and sheathes his second dagger on his back. Beside him, Cassandra fiddles with the straps of her leather tunic, attempting to tighten it across the shoulders. "Here." Tyrn steps behind her and uses his right hand to adjust them.

"Thank you," she says. When she finishes strapping on her belt, she pulls a traveling cloak with a high collar over her shoulders and looks up at him.

"Don't forget to bring a book," Tyrn says. "I know you'll want to read in the evenings before you turn in."

A small smile plays on her lips. "I've packed that new poetry volume you gave me."

"You'll probably want to bring an extra blanket, as well," he adds with a smirk. "Otherwise you'll end up stealing mine."

"Mmm." Cassandra tugs at his collar with an amused expression, fixing a crease in the leather. "Now you're just poking fun," she says, raising an eyebrow at him.

"What, I don't get to remind you to pack your things? Do I detect a double standard?"

"Ha! Never." She chuckles and leans into his chest, breathing in the scent of pine and autumn air and tanned leather as he hugs her tightly, humming. "I'm sorry," she murmurs. Tyrn reaches up to stroke her hair.

"Don't be. Are you worried?"

"About the trip? No. I think it will be a nice change of pace, actually." She sighs thoughtfully. "Still...after all this time, I sometimes need to remind myself that we are going on a simple hunting trip, not heading out to face a horde of demons or Qunari or Maker knows what else."

"I know." They pull away for a moment; his hand lingers on her cheek, tracing the scar that runs above her left jawline. "I do, too." Then his eyes brighten. "But don't worry...I'll protect you from the big bad bears." At this, Cassandra snorts and shoves him playfully as he chuckles.

"I think it will likely be the other way around... _Stumpy_."

Tyrn laughs and tosses Cassandra her pack; she swings it over her shoulders before grabbing her shield and sliding her sword into its scabbard. Before they leave the room, she picks up a hunting spear for good measure. Tyrn raises an eyebrow at her. "Ready?" He asks.

She returns his question with a smile. "Yes, my love. Let's go."

* * *

"So, Seeker…."

"Don't say it."

"What?"

"You were going to make some terrible joke about how many weapons I'm carrying." Cassandra hoists herself over a fallen tree and lands steadily on the other side, then continues on through the grass. The Hinterlands are especially cold in autumn; a slight breeze cuts through the pines and ruffles her short hair. Beside her, Varric tugs on his shoulder strap and grunts.

"Nonsense. All of my jokes are funny."

"Ugh."

"What? It's just—" the dwarf kicks a pine cone over to Tyrn, and the two begin a back and forth game, "—I mean, are you expecting... _resistance_ , or?"

Cassandra sighs.

Varric continues: "Well, I suppose I understand your concern. Bears and rabid bunnies are pretty formidable. I hope you haven't forgotten how to hold that shield of yours." He sidesteps to catch Tyrn's next pass, then boots the pinecone back to him.

"It never hurts to be prepared," Cassandra says. "Besides...since my usual armor would be—what was the term you used? Clanky?—I feel a little bit exposed. How you two have managed all these years with little more than leather and a small amount of chainmail is beyond me."

Tyrn flicks the pinecone up onto the toe of his boot and then kicks it into the air; it hits the sleeve of Varric's jacket and rolls to a stop a few feet away. He looks to his wife. "Subtlety," he says. "That, and well-sharpened daggers."

"And Bianca, of course." Varric reaches back to pat his trusty crossbow. "Mostly Bianca."

Cassandra releases another sigh. "Subtlety has never been my strong suit."

"You can say that again," the dwarf chuckles. Cassandra rolls her eyes heavily as they continue on through the brush, ducking below pine branches and vaulting over the occasional outcropping of rock. Before long, the home behind them disappears from view.

"Varric," Tyrn ventures after a stretch of amicable silence, "I've noticed that you haven't given Cassandra a nickname yet."

The dwarf scuffs his boot and coughs. "Sure I have, Stumpy. It's Seeker."

"That's not a nickname," Cassandra says, turning her head to glance over at him. "That's my title."

"Well, think of it this way: if I gave you a nickname back when I barely knew you, I probably wouldn't be alive today. Am I right?"

Cassandra stifles a laugh. "I see your opinion of me is still excessively low."

Varric brushes a fallen pine needle from his shoulder, then looks to her with an amused expression. "Aw, so you _do_ care what I think!"

"Ugh."

"So, if you were to give her a nickname now, what would it be?" Tyrn asks, stepping over a large stone and readjusting one of the straps of his hunting pack. The dwarf hums in thought.

"Hmm. You know, before I would have said something like, 'Scowls', or maybe 'Hard Ass'. But now, Seeker, you don't scowl _quite_ as much, and you seem a little nicer." He glances at Tyrn with an amused expression. "Apparently, Stumpy's amiable personality has rubbed off on you."

At this, Cassandra gives her husband a warm smile. He smirks.

"That said...I don't know, maybe something like, 'Swoony' instead," Varric says.

"I do not swoon!" She cuts him a defensive glare.

Varric laughs as her cheeks turn pink. "Right. I must have missed the look you just gave Tyrn, then. Right, Stumpy?"

"I have to say I'm with Varric on this one, dear," the elf agrees. "Not that I can blame you for falling for my roguish charms, of course."

Cassandra sighs for what must be the millionth time today. "You two are insufferable."

* * *

They hike further into the hills, at times filling the cold air with conversation and laughter; at others, allowing a comfortable silence to stretch between them, broken only by the rustle of the pines or the occasional bird call. The sun is setting by the time the three finally stop at a grassy clearing.

"Ah," Varric grunts as his stomach rumbles loudly, "we should make camp before it gets dark."

"And before your stomach attracts unwanted attention," Tyrn says.

"Agreed," Cassandra chimes in. "You'll lure all of the rabid bunnies right to our camp, and then we'll really be in trouble." She slides her pack off of her shoulders and tips her head back in a stretch.

"I guess it's a good thing you came prepared, after all," the dwarf quips. He pats his belly. "Please tell me we brought something other than vegetables to eat."

Tyrn removes his own pack and rummages through some of their supplies. "Tomorrow we can do some hunting," he says, "but for tonight...ah, here we are." The elf pulls a loaf of bread from the pack and tosses it to Varric. His friend looks down at it with a somewhat disappointed expression, as though he were hoping for roast duck.

"Well...at least it isn't green," he sighs.

Tyrn raises an eyebrow as he and Cassandra begin unrolling their tents. "Not until you bite into it, that is. You never know. Cassandra baked it, after all."

His wife gives him a steely glare. "Oh, please. At least I didn't burn it to a crisp, _husband_."

"Touché."

Varric unwraps the bread and examines it for a moment before tearing a piece off and taking a bite. Seemingly satisfied, he swallows and takes another, then moves toward the couple. "I can help with the tents, Stumpy, if you want to grab some firewood." He wraps the bread again and sets it down for later. A strange, almost wistful expression passes over Tyrn's face, brief but prominent, before he nods and heads silently through the brush. Cassandra watches after him with a lingering worry in her eyes.

"You think he's alright?" Varric helps her find some decent-sized branches, and together they stretch the fabric of the first tent over the makeshift frame.

"It bothers him sometimes," she says, pulling the fabric tight. "The loss of his arm, I mean. He tries to hide it, but…."

"Mmm." Varric hums thoughtfully as he pulls the first anchor and stakes it to the ground. When he's finished, he looks up at Cassandra. "I've noticed. I can understand it, though, if you think of it from his point of view. He wasn't just anybody. He was the Inquisitor. Dragon-slaying, demon-crushing, all-around hero of Thedas, _Inquisitor_."

"He is still that hero," Cassandra says as she stakes the second anchor. They move on to the next tent; Varric finishes unrolling the fabric as she continues. "The loss of his arm doesn't change who he is; not really. And I will have you know that he wasn't interested in all of that fame. He just...did what he had to do."

"Right, he's said that before. He's really too humble for his own good." They pull until the fabric is taut, then stake the first end.

"Ah. You did heard him talk about his roguish charm earlier, right?"

Varric chuckles. "You know what I mean." They finish the second tent, and Cassandra lays some blankets down in both. "But my point is this: he went from doing all of those impossible things to having trouble carrying more than two mugs at once." He levels the Seeker with a steady gaze. "You do realize he worries about _you_ , right? He's your husband, Cassandra. He wants to be able to protect you—rabid bunnies, bears, demons, nightmares, or whatever else."

"I know he does." Her gaze flickers downward, and something akin to sorrow passes over her dark eyes. "I just…." She releases a sigh through her teeth. "I'm not sure how to help him, exactly."

Varric retrieves the loaf of bread and hands her a chunk, smirking. "Hell, Seeker, some things never change."

"Pardon?"

"You're a fixer. Always have been." He takes a bite of bread and chews thoughtfully for a moment. "But this, I'm afraid, isn't something you can just _fix_. What he probably needs is time. Be patient, support him, let him...I don't know, work through it like a man."

"Hmm."

"And a good hunting trip should help boost his confidence, too," Varric adds.

Cassandra tips her head to the side as she regards the dwarf. "Thank you, Varric...and you know," she says, "I think he might have rubbed off on you, too."

He laughs heartily, a rumbling sound that emanates from his chest. "Yeah, he probably did." Then he sighs. "Ugh, look at me, giving relationship advice...I need some ale." With this, he rummages around in his pack until he finds a flask, then takes a long swig. "Ah," the dwarf sighs. "Better."

* * *

Tyrn arrives shortly with a bundle of wood balanced somewhat awkwardly in his arms and, as the last rays of sunlight ebb and the first stars begin to gleam, the three hunters rest comfortably around the fire. Varric regales the other two with stories from some of his recent endeavors in Kirkwall; mostly, they involve the nonsensical and more than a little extravagant ways in which he and Hawke managed to prank Bran Cavin.

"It's too bad Sera isn't here—she would have loved that one," Tyrn says, laughing, as Varric finishes.

The dwarf nods. "She gave me the idea for it in her last letter, actually." He stokes the fire, watching as the embers rise into the night sky. "Anyway, I suppose I should turn in. I don't know about you two, but I'm exhausted."

"Oh?" Cassandra raises an eyebrow at him from over the top of her poetry book. "Don't tell me you've gone soft on us, Varric. Has all of that viscount business gotten to you?"

Varric snorts. "And this is coming from the woman reading a book of poetry, of all things." He sends her a lopsided smirk.

Cassandra sighs and returns to her poems.

"Well," the dwarf grunts as he pulls himself to his feet and heads for a tent. "I'll see you guys in the morning, then. Try to get some shut-eye, yes?" He heads inside his canvas shelter, pulling the flap closed and releasing a definitive sigh as he presumably lays down.

It is quiet for a while; Tyrn leans close to Cassandra and wraps an arm around her waist. He drinks in the warmth of the fire, the wild air, the tilt of Cassandra's head as she breathes, engrossed in her book. She shifts as he lets out a contented sigh. Her eyes—close, alight with fire—meet his. He smiles.

"Any good ones?" Tyrn asks, his gaze flicking to the pages littered with stanzas, like so many mysteries, so many letters to open and pull apart and discover.

"A few." She raises an eyebrow at him. "Here…." Cassandra flips through the pages until she finds a certain poem, then hands the book to Tyrn. "You might like this one."

He studies the page for a moment, and she rests her head against his shoulder. Then he begins to read:

"Three times I knock on the Maker's door

Thrice I am denied

Cold hands rap on unyielding, gilded crests

How long must I wait? Does He know? Will He answer?

The first is heat in my veins

Salt water pours, flesh is fire

Soaked rags pressed to my forehead

All is burning, aching, flame,

Make it stop make it stop

And then, it does.

Three times I knock on the Maker's door

Thrice I am denied

Cold hands rap on unyielding, gilded crests

How long must I wait? Does He know? Will He answer?

The second is emptiness

Hands grasping for something to fill

Instead, they close on echoes

Sickness and battle have ravaged our land

Now we wail and kick the dust

Emptiness yawns; I reach for the sun as it closes

Three times I knock on the Maker's door

Thrice I am denied

Cold hands rap on unyielding, gilded crests

How long must I wait? Does He know? Will He answer?

The third is a sword

Angry steel rips through armor

Down to the bone and flesh and soul beneath

The ground is frozen beneath me, hard against my back

Surely now is the time, Maker. Surely, today.

Three times I knock on the Maker's door

Thrice I am denied

Cold hands rap on unyielding, gilded crests

How long must I wait? Does He know? Will He answer?

I return to the door on one last trip;

Another knock, another tap.

This time I do not ask for me, but for her.

As the door remains closed and instead her eyes open, I realize:

I was not denied, not ignored, not turned away

But rather, thrice granted, thrice saved

Perhaps for this one last stand, this one last day."

Tyrn carefully closes the book and presses a kiss to Cassandra's head. "Good choice," he says. She releases an affirmative hum. They are quiet for a moment; the elf gazes into the fire and listens to the steady _hush_ of Cassandra's breathing. Then she looks up at him.

"I love it when you read to me," she says simply.

A soft chuckle rumbles in his chest. "I know you do. It's how I won your heart in the first place, after all. Well, that and—"

"Your roguish charm?" She pinches his ear as he snickers. They laugh for a moment, and then she sits up so that she can see his eyes properly: _Winter blue_ , she thinks—falling snow against the backdrop of a frozen lake. And yet, despite the coolness of the image, they are always so very _warm_. "I do not think I will ever tire of it," Cassandra says.

"My reading to you? Or my charm?" He smirks.

"Either." She smiles as he hugs her tightly, and then they pull themselves to their feet. Cassandra reaches up to smooth his collar again; her hand sweeps over the leather, still warm from their close proximity to the fire. "We should probably get some sleep," she says.

"Probably." Tyrn brushes his fingers under her chin, tipping her head up just slightly. A breeze passes through the camp, causing the fire to flicker and bend, and the shadows on her face dance as though guided by some silent choreographer. Cassandra tugs gently on his collar and he leans forward until their foreheads touch. Tyrn closes his eyes. "I love you," he whispers. He can feel her smile as they close that last, fragile distance between them with a long kiss.

"And I, you," Cassandra breathes as they pull away. Then she takes his hand and they walk, still smiling, into their tent with the expectation of a short—but restful—sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

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* * *

Tyrn is kneeling beside a cold, muddy trail, studying a set of elk tracks. Grey morning light filters through the pines and illuminates the pale curve of the dagger on his back. Although the chill is particularly sharp at this hour, the hunting trio is fortunate: yesterday's wind is gone, and a crisp stillness has replaced it.

After a moment, Tyrn exhales and looks ahead. "That way," he whispers, nodding toward a cluster of bushes further up the trail.

Varric shifts beside him and exchanges a nod with Cassandra, who is standing a few yards away. Her dark eyes scan the trees around them as Tyrn rises silently to his feet. Carefully, they continue forward; Varric readies his crossbow as they move along the trail.

For the first time since leaving home, Cassandra is grateful for her lighter armor. The leather boots help muffle her careful footfalls; gone is the constant _clink_ of her shoulder plates and the _scrape_ of her gauntlets. Now, she is able to move quietly with considerably more ease.

 _Not quite so easily as Tyrn, of course,_ she thinks as she watches her husband meld into the ripple of leaves and shade ahead, as though he is a part of the forest itself: a stream of careful, lithe energy in one moment; as still as the cold air in the next. Still, in spite of that nagging sense of _not enough protection_ , Cassandra is comfortable enough for the time being. She follows quietly after Tyrn and Varric as they slip through some deep brush and vault over a fallen tree. The soft _thump_ of her boots as she lands on the other side coalesces with the sound of Varric's frustrated sigh. She looks up to see him, along with Tyrn, bent over the mangled carcass of an elk calf.

"Looks like wolves took him down," Varric says grimly. "Must've separated him from the rest of the herd."

Tyrn's sharp blue gaze rakes over the jagged bite marks and tears in the young beast's skin. The blood appears relatively fresh; the grass surrounding the corpse is stained red, and when he plucks a single blade, it leaves a scarlet trail across his fingers.

"They didn't eat much of it." Cassandra steps closer with a heavy frown.

Tyrn straightens and wipes the blood from his hand, surveying the rest of the small clearing. "Something must have interrupted their meal….Here." The ground near the corpse is muddled with tracks and deep claw marks. More blood is sprinkled across the grass and mud—far too much to belong solely to the fallen calf.

"I count at least two wolves," Varric says. "And…."

"A bear." Cassandra's hand goes instinctively to the sword at her side. She looks to Tyrn, who is following the path of carnage as it leads out of the clearing. He stops at the edge of the trees. His head tips upward as he gazes through the branches, considering.

"Well, Stumpy, you _did_ mention hunting bear." Varric eyes the elf thoughtfully. "Maybe he'll make an easier target, now that he's probably injured?" The dwarf rolls his shoulders back; one of them releases a distinct _pop_ as the muscles pull and tug, and he sighs. "I'm sure we can handle a few wolves, too—assuming they survived."

Tyrn fiddles with the clasps on his blade arm for a moment. "It _would_ get us quite a bit of meat. We can come back for the rest of this elk, as well."

"I agree." Cassandra scuffs a boot against the cold ground. "We have more than enough salt to keep the extra preserved."

"And I can take some back to Kirkwall with me. I'm sure Hawke will be glad to taste some good, old fashioned bear stew." Varric smirks.

Cassandra gives him a skeptical look. "You know how to cook?"

"Well, no, but Bran does." The dwarf chuckles. "Turns out he's useful for something, after all."

Cassandra rolls her eyes.

"Sounds like it's settled, then." Tyrn raises his eyebrows and flashes his wife a brief smile before he turns back to the forest. "Come on. Let's stay on our guard."

* * *

They haven't made it far when they come to a fork in the trail. One set of wolf tracks breaks from the chase and leads away, while the second set—along with that of the bear—continues on.

"There's still a lot of blood here," Varric observes. "Looks like this wolf took quite a hit." He gestures to the tracks that branch away. Each pawprint is stained with scarlet in the dark, cold mud, and the trail leads on for a stretch until it disappears into the trees.

"Injured or not, it seems strange that a wolf would leave a pack member behind." Cassandra frowns at the bloody tracks. "They are fiercely loyal creatures."

"Agreed." Tyrn's brow pulls down in a curious expression. "Mmm...it could be a diversion."

"A diversion?"

"Yes. When I traveled with my clan, we occasionally encountered wolves who would split off in order to lead predators away from a den or from weaker members of the pack. If there are only two wolves here…."

"A mating pair, perhaps? Mature enough to be starting their own pack?" Cassandra raises an eyebrow at him.

Varric rubs the stubble on his chin. "In that case, your theory would make sense, Stumpy. They might have a den somewhere nearby."

"Exactly." Tyrn tips his head to the side. "It isn't mating season yet, but I'm sure they would want to keep their den protected. It would likely be appealing to a bear who is preparing for hibernation."

Varric adjusts his grip on Bianca and grunts. "Maybe we should follow both trails."

"Why?"

"Well, if the diversion doesn't work and the bear catches wind of that den, he'll probably head toward it. One wolf doesn't stand a chance against a full grown bear, after all."

Tyrn exchanges a glance with Cassandra. She presses her lips together in a thin line and gives him a tight nod. "Alright," he agrees. "Cassandra and I will follow the bear's trail. Varric, you go after our second wolf. If anything happens or if you run into trouble, fire off one of your flare bolts—we should be close enough to see it." He levels the dwarf with a steady gaze. "Be careful."

Varric snorts. "Oh, please. You should be more worried about the bear we're about to take down. If Bianca and I don't get to him first, well...I'm sure Swoony here can bore him to death with her poetry book."

Cassandra glares at him. "You, of all people, should appreciate the art of poetry."

"Sure, if I'm the one writing it."

"Ugh."

Tyrn chuckles as the dwarf smirks and heads off in the direction of the bloodied wolf tracks. Beside him, Cassandra unsheathes the spear from where it has been strapped beneath her shield and takes a deep breath. "Ready?" She asks him. Her lips turn upward in a lopsided smile, and the brightening light of the morning turns her eyes to an almost golden color, as though the sun itself has risen within them.

 _Sweet Maker, she's beautiful._ Tyrn's breath hitches in his throat. _It's strange_ , he thinks, _how the smallest moments can quickly become the greatest gifts. How often do I overlook them?_

"Tyrn?"

"Ah, right, yes." Thus awakened from his thoughts, he carefully shuffles this image of her to the back of his mind and the forefront of his heart, where he will return to remember it and smile later. Then he reaches out to briefly squeeze her hand with his own. "Let's go."

* * *

They follow the trail as it winds through the forest. The worst of the morning chill has been chased away by the sun, but Tyrn can still see his breath as it rises, a grey wisp, curling into the air until it dissipates above him.

The tracks lead them to the body of a large, matted grey wolf. Cassandra's brow pulls into a troubled expression; she exchanges a nod with Tyrn, who unsheathes his second dagger and examines the ground. _More bear tracks_. Claw marks and deep swaths of kicked dirt lie like a crime scene surrounding the body—there was obviously a fight, but it didn't last long. The bear triumphed, and then...more prints lead away from the corpse, heading north.

Tyrn catches the sharp flick of Cassandra's eyes when he looks up. _Varric was right_ , he thinks. _We need to reach him before the bear does_.

They take off again, at a jog this time, following the tracks and dodging low-hanging branches as they move. Varric can't be far; it didn't take them long to find the corpse of this wolf, after all, and that was at a relatively slow pace. Tyrn's breath comes faster. Just behind him, he can hear the faint creak of Cassandra's leather armor as she follows. His eyes search the sky for any sign of Varric's flare.

Nothing.

In the split second it takes Tyrn to look down and realize that the tracks have disappeared, several things happen at once: Cassandra's breathless cry reaches his ears as she shouts his name; a forceful weight barrels into him from behind and he is thrown to the side, spinning; he lands in the mud as a hulking mass of primal rage and dusky-brown fur looms over Cassandra, who is standing in the spot where he had been, just before she pushed him out of the way. How she managed to ready her shield in time, he has no idea.

Tyrn pulls himself from the cold ground and struggles to reach her as the bear releases an ear-splitting roar, its beady eyes red-rimmed and fierce. Claws and sheer weight collide with metal in a resounding _crack_ as the beast slams into Cassandra's shield. She snarls, stumbling backward beneath the force. The spear she has been holding falls from her hands, clattering on the rocks; she had meant to impale the bear using its own strength against it, but the force of the impact causes her to lose her grip. The ground is angled at a slope beneath her. She rolls backward and scoops the weapon from the ground.

Tyrn scrambles to Cassandra's side and helps her to her feet as the grizzly prepares for another strike; its dull claws scrape across the dirt, scattering rocks and grass. Gripping his dagger, Tyrn darts to the side, disappearing into the shadows, then re-emerges just as quickly. There is a tear in the beast's leg where the wolves landed several blows. He aims for that spot and is gratified with the sound of a pained roar as his blades strike true, cutting deeper into the wound, where bone and sinew lie beneath. He leaps away; the bear's claws swipe through thin air in an attempt to gore him.

Taking the opportunity Tyrn has given her, Cassandra lunges with the spear. Cold metal pierces the beast's hide just behind its shoulder. She throws her weight into the attack with a roar of her own; the spear slides further, seeking that heart, that victory. Before it reaches, however, the grizzly wheels around with its good leg, throwing Cassandra aside as the spear is wrested from her grip. She flies several feet before her back slams into a tree and she skids to the ground, gasping for breath.

"Cass!" Tyrn shouts her name, a desperate cry that rings through the cold air like the sound of a cracked Chantry bell. Before the bear reaches his wife, he leaps. Daggers flash in the morning sun; Tyrn plunges them deep into the side of the creature's neck as he lands, dragging them down. The bear throws its head to the side. Blood sprays across the ground. Its teeth close on Tyrn's crafted blade arm—for once, he is grateful that he's already lost the appendage, as he can easily imagine the bones crunching between the beast's jaws. Then it yanks—hard—on the blade, wrenching his shoulder. Tyrn snarls in pain and plunges his other dagger into its temple. The bear's grip falters; he stabs again, and then a crossbow bolt whizzes through the air beside him and pierces through the beast's eye, burying itself so deeply that only the very last of the fletching is visible. The bear releases one last, gurgling snarl, and then it slumps down into the grass.

Tyrn dislodges his dagger from its skull and pulls his other blade from its mouth, wincing as his shoulder runs hot with pain.

From behind him, he hears Varric drawl, "Damn. You two are really out of practice, aren't you?"

Ignoring him, Tyrn rushes to where Cassandra is just beginning to stand, her back still pressed against the tree. "Are you alright?" He asks. He gently takes her arm and helps her to her feet.

Cassandra blinks up at him. "I'm fine. A little bruised, but I'm alright." She looks him over. "You?"

"Same." But his worried eyes continue to skate over her, clearly unconvinced.

Cassandra reaches up and lays a hand on his cheek. "Tyrn," she says, forcing his blue gaze to meet hers. "I'm okay. As if a bear, of all things, would be the end of me." She feels some of his tension melt away at her touch.

A slow smirk spreads across his face. "Maker forbid. You would beg him to send you back, if only to give you a more glorious death...well, and to see me, of course."

"Really? Flirting? Right now?" Varric steps around the bear and gives them a roll of his eyes. "You guys _really_ need a lesson on when these things are appropriate."

Cassandra snorts as Tyrn steps away, tipping his head to the side. "Just because your lady is across the sea right now, Varric…."

"What do you mean? She's right here." He pats Bianca before returning the crossbow to its holster on his back.

Cassandra sighs heavily. "Insufferable."

"Anyway, that was a great shot," Tyrn continues, gesturing toward the remnants of the bear's eye. "Very timely, as well."

"Yeah, well, with all the noise you guys were making, it would be almost impossible not to hear you. The hard part was discerning which roar came from the bear, and which one came from Cassandra."

"I—wait. What is that?" Cassandra's retort is cut off when she realizes that something in one of the larger pouches of Varric's belt is moving.

"Oh, right. Uh...I may have, uh…." He trails off for a moment as he reaches into the pack and lifts up a squirming ball of mottled black fur.

Tyrn stares at it, dumbfounded. "Is that...you _stole_ a wolf pup?"

"I didn't _steal_ him. He's all that's left of his litter." The dwarf holds the puppy awkwardly, clearly not certain where best to position his hands. "You were right about that diversion, Stumpy. I found our second wolf not far from the den, but...well. She lost too much blood, I think."

"What about the other pups?" Cassandra asks, taking a step forward so that she can get a better look at the ball of fluff. He can't be more than two weeks old; his eyes—that characteristic pale, puppy blue—blink slowly up at her. When he yawns (indeed, she must admit that it's a painfully cute sight), she can see that most of his teeth have come in.

Varric shifts his grip and sighs. "Gone. I don't know if they had another wolf who moved them, or if the bear got to them at some point, or what. Maybe this guy was the runt or something. But anyway...I couldn't just leave him, you know?"

"Well...what are we supposed to do with him?" Cassandra frowns tightly, uncertain.

"Actually, I was hoping you guys might take him."

Tyrn stares at him. "What?"

"Well yeah, I mean, think about it: you guys have lots of space, and you've probably got a lot of time on your hands, and...well, Stumpy, you're an elf. Don't you guys have a connection with wolves, or whatever?"

"Wolves have been known to hunt with some Dalish clans, yes." Tyrn sheathes his weapon and reaches out to scratch the pup beneath his chin. "But I don't know if that means _I've_ got a connection with them."

"Oh, come on. Look at his face—how can you _not_ have a connection with him?" Varric raises his eyebrows thoughtfully. "You could think of it as practice."

"Practice for what?" Cassandra reaches out and carefully takes the puppy from Varric, holding him up for a moment before bringing him close to her chest. Tyrn feels his mouth tug upward in a smile.

Varric coughs. "Uh, kids?"

Tyrn and Cassandra stare at him, speechless, apparently caught completely off guard by the suggestion. "You mean...children?" Cassandra's mouth hangs agape.

The dwarf scuffs his boot on the ground."No, I mean baby goats." He smirks. "Yes, _children_. Kids. You know. Why do you guys look so surprised? Are you—" Varric seems to realize the meaning behind their expressions and coughs awkwardly, shifting. "Oh. You guys haven't had this talk yet."

"I—well, we, uh…." Tyrn stammers.

Cassandra's cheeks flood with color. "That is...um…." She trails off.

"Well, shit." Varric scratches the back of his head and turns to the side, frowning. "Right. Just forget that last part, then. I would take him, but there's no way I can raise a _wolf_ in Kirkwall." He waits for the awkward silence to pass; the puppy settles itself rather comfortably in Cassandra's arms and proceeds to fall asleep. "What do you say? You can always write Cullen for advice. He has a dog."

"A dog is quite different from a wolf—he's a wild animal, after all. But he may be young enough…." Tyrn watches as the puppy's ribcage slowly expands and contracts with each breath. "What do you say, Cass?"

She looks to him, her eyes warm. "It would be cruel to leave him, I think. And he really _is_ quite cute." She sighs; it is a thoughtful, gentle sound. "I say we give it a try."

Tyrn smiles as he looks at her, the wolf pup nestled in her arms, and he wonders what will come of their impending discussion on children, now that Varric has brought it up.

"Well, we should probably get this bear skinned and quartered so we can make our way back to camp," Varric says.

"Yes," Cassandra agrees, "and we still have the rest of that elk calf, as well."

"Oh." The dwarf sighs. "I forgot about that."

"Ah, cheer up, Varric." Tyrn pats his friend on the shoulder. "One thing's for sure: we'll be eating meat tonight."

Varric hums in agreement. "As long as someone else cooks, I'm game."

* * *

"So…." Tyrn grunts as he hefts his pack—filled to the brim with cuts of bear and elk meat—and glances at his companions. "Anyone else curious as to why these wolves had a litter at this time of year? It's unheard of."

Varric shifts beneath the weight of his own load with a sigh. The wolf pup peeks its head out of the pouch on his belt, pale eyes half-closed from sleep. "Yeah, it's definitely weird," the dwarf says.

"Mmm." Cassandra tips her head up in thought. "Remember how the rifts used to affect nearby wolf packs?"

"Uh-huh."

"Well, perhaps it had a lasting impact. Even though they aren't corrupted anymore, it may have altered their cycles."

"Huh." Tyrn rubs his sore shoulder (the elfroot potion helped considerably, but a lasting ache remains). "That makes sense."

They plod along in silence for a while; by now, the sun has reached its peak and is beginning its descent on the horizon. "Ugh," Varric breaks the stretch of quiet after some time, "are we almost there?"

Cassandra snorts. "Must you complain about _everything_ , Varric?"

The dwarf groans under his mountain of packed meat. Piled atop his short stature, it looks almost comical. "Yes. Yes, I must. And anyway, Seeker, how is it that I got the heaviest load?" He growls, shooting her a disgruntled look. "Aren't you supposed to be, you know, the _tough_ one here? I'm half your height."

"Oh, please."

"Here, Varric, I'll help lighten your load." Tyrn falls back a few steps until he is in line with the dwarf, then reaches out and scoops the puppy from the pouch on his belt. He cradles it in the crook of his good arm, smirking. "There you go."

"What? Hey, I need him for moral support!"

"That's what _we're_ here for," Cassandra says.

"Heh. Well, I'm afraid your definition of 'moral support' is pretty different from mine."

Tyrn chuckles and rubs the puppy's velvety, half-flopped ears. "I think I know what would help raise your spirits, Varric."

The dwarf casts him a sideways look, raising his eyebrows. "Oh?"

"We should give you a nickname."

Varric chuckles heartily, his broad chest rumbling. "I suppose that's fair—as long as it's a good one."

"I vote 'Chest Hair'," Cassandra says. Tyrn laughs openly; the puppy shifts in his arms and sneezes.

Varric's eyes brighten with amusement. "That was quick. You've obviously thought about this before, Seeker."

"Yes. Tyrn and I have thought of several, actually. I think that one is the best."

"Wait, is this what married life is like?" Varric looks between the two, chuckling. "You guys just...what? _Practice_ Wicked Grace in order to beat me, sit around reading books and drinking tea, and think about what nicknames might suit me best? If so, I must say I'm flattered—weirded out, but flattered."

Cassandra readjusts her pack with a sigh. "There are... _other things_ we do, as well. I assume you would prefer not to know about those, however."

"Andraste's ass, please don't," Varric sputters.

"What? She meant using extra copies of _Swords and Shields_ for kindling." Tyrn cuts him a sideways look of mock surprise. "Good grief, Varric, get your mind out of the gutter."

The dwarf snorts and rolls his eyes. "Yeah, right. She loves those books way too much to let you do that. Besides," he says, "You already told me about how you guys buy extra copies for each other any chance you get. Why you would choose those books, of all things, is beyond me. They make terrible gifts."

"Mmm. They carry sentimental value." Tyrn gives his wife a fond smile, who returns the look with a wink.

Varric throws his head back and releases an exaggerated sigh. "Yep, married life sounds weird."

* * *

The sun has set by the time they make it back to camp, and they unstrap their heavy packs with a collective sigh of relief. Tyrn and Cassandra cut a few portions of elk meat and cook them over the fire; the meat is bland without their spices from home, but the trio is hungry enough that nobody seems to mind. They sit around the fire for some time, eating and talking and enjoying the warmth. Tyrn sets the wolf pup down and he waddles around in circles before sitting down and staring up at the cooked meat.

"Here." Tyrn cuts some small chunks of raw elk for the pup and feeds them to him, one at a time. After several bites, Cassandra takes over.

"The poor thing must be starving," she says. The puppy chews hungrily, his tiny teeth slowly grinding each bite of meat until it is soft enough to swallow. Eventually he finishes, his belly round and full; he licks her fingers to glean the last morsels of taste. Then he stumbles over and situates himself in Tyrn's lap with a grunt (with such a full stomach, it is a struggle for him to crawl over the elf's leg) and sighs contentedly. Cassandra smiles. "Well, it doesn't take long for him to get comfortable," she says.

"It's probably my elven wiles." Tyrn winks.

Cassandra chuckles at this. "Probably." She looks across the fire, where Varric is finishing his meal. "Satisfied?" She asks him.

"Ah." The dwarf takes a long swig of ale and sighs. "Very. Hunger always makes the best of our meals. Reminds me of the old days: traveling and camping and killing all kinds of things—of course, it was mostly demons back then. And red templars. But anyway, we'd be so hungry by the time we made camp that pretty much anything tasted amazing."

"Mmm." Tyrn hums happily. "Yes. Those were the good old days. Well...maybe the not-so-good old days, considering the demons and red templars. But," he looks at his wife and smirks, "they were still good, I think. They had their moments."

Cassandra shifts closer to him and presses a kiss to his shoulder. "Yes," she says, "they did." Then she stands and prepares a pot with the remaining water they acquired from a nearby stream. "Tea?"

"Please." Tyrn gives her a grateful nod, and she fastens the pot over the fire. It doesn't take long to boil; Cassandra pours a mug for the two of them after adding some tea leaves. She hands Tyrn his cup of steaming liquid. Then she grabs her poetry book and settles herself beside him with a sigh, resting her head against his shoulder.

They sit like that for a while, with the crackling fire and the open pages of Cassandra's book and the gentle rise and fall of the wolf pup's sides as he sleeps. At some point, Varric stretches out on his back and gazes up at the stars; it is not long before he starts to snore. Tyrn sips his tea and gazes into the flames. He watches the embers burn and crackle at its base. When he looks long enough, he thinks he can make out the shape of a bear, curling and flickering. He blinks and it disappears. Another image replaces it, however, as he recalls his choking fear as Cassandra was thrown against the tree earlier today. Tyrn swallows painfully. One shift of her position or slight change in the bear's attack, and she could have died. That space beside him would be empty now.

That space _inside_ him would be empty.

He clears his throat and blinks again; the image fades. Tyrn leans closer to breathe in the scent of Cassandra's hair, grateful for her closeness, her _being_ , and he kisses the top of her head. She shifts and closes her book with a yawn.

"Shall we turn in?" Tyrn asks her. Cassandra nods sleepily, and together they carefully pull themselves to their feet. The puppy yawns and readjusts its position with a sigh. Tyrn looks over at Varric. "Should we…?"

Cassandra blinks. "He's alright. Let's not disturb him."

Tyrn nods, hesitates, then hands Cassandra the pup before grabbing a blanket from Varric's tent and draping it over his friend (the night's chill has already begun to creep in). The dwarf mutters something in his sleep and pulls the blanket up over his head. Tyrn hums in amusement and joins his wife in their tent, where she is already slipping a clean, silk shirt over her head. As he unstraps his leather armor, Cassandra takes an extra blanket and bunches it up on the ground for the wolf. He doesn't wake as she moves him from where he is sleeping to the softer area.

"I suppose we'll need to give him a name," Tyrn says as he lies down.

Cassandra slides under the blankets with him and lays her head on his chest. "Mm-hmm." She presses her ear to his skin; his heartbeat is steady and strong. Holding her breath, she clings to that sound, that rhythm. It is all too easy to recall the image of him from earlier today: his silhouette frozen amidst a background of trees as the bear lunges, only a moment away from striking. She breathes out. If she had hesitated, if she had been only a fraction of a second too late, he might have died. That heartbeat she hears now would be silenced.

 _Her_ heartbeat would be silenced. Blinking to dispel the image, Cassandra wraps her arm tightly around Tyrn, as though the gesture will keep the rest of the world at bay, will keep him safe, here, forever. He responds to her touch by reaching up to gently stroke her hair. The movement soothes her; slowly, she relaxes.

They lie there for what seems like an eternity—that is, in both of their minds, a very well-spent eternity. Eventually, Cassandra whispers, "Are you still awake?"

"Mmm." He hums sleepily. "Are you?"

Cassandra taps a finger against his chin, laughing softly as his chest rumbles in an amused sound. "Obviously," she says. She hesitates. "What are you thinking about?"

Tyrn is quiet for a long moment. "I was wondering what _you_ are thinking about, actually."

"Oh."

"Cass…."

"Yes?"

Tyrn shifts slightly beneath her as he looks over at the slumbering wolf pup. "What Varric brought up earlier…um, about children, I mean." He feels her take a breath and release it, a gentle rush of air that wisps across his skin.

"Right," She whispers. "Kids."

They let the word linger between them as though it holds some strange, foreign meaning.

"Well, I don't know—have you thought about it? Us, as...parents?" He asks. Again, the word drifts above them, a complexity of intricate meanings both far-off and near, like some rift that hangs just out of reach.

Cassandra stares off into the dim light of the tent, thinking. "A little," she admits. "I've wondered what it might be like, at times." She props herself up onto her elbow so that she can see his face.

His lips pull up into a faint smile—wistful, perhaps? "I imagine they would be absolute terrors."

Cassandra chuckles. "You think so?"

"Of course. Between my elven wiles and your stubborn streak?" His blue eyes flicker with amusement. "All Thedas would tremble."

She laughs with him, imagining the patter of tiny feet on the wooden floors of their home. "That it would," she agrees. She stretches out a finger to trace the branch-like pattern of his _vallaslin_ as it runs along his cheekbones. "Oh, and the birthday parties. Can you imagine the gifts Uncle Varric would bring?"

Tyrn snickers as he smooths an unruly section of her hair. "I would be more worried about Uncle Bull and Aunt Sera. The sheer destruction they could wreak with the likes of our children!"

"Ah. Our house would never be the same," Cassandra says.

"No, indeed." He blinks at her, searching her expression.

After a moment, her eyes flicker downward; a troubled frown tugs at the corners of her mouth. "In truth, I…." She hesitates, searching for the right words. "Well. I've wondered if it's possible that I…."

"That you can't?" Tyrn finishes her sentence in a whisper, spoken so softly that she barely hears it.

Cassandra's eyes remain downcast. "Tyrn," she breathes, "What if that's the case? What if I'm...I mean, it's not as if we've been _trying_ , exactly, but we've been together for several years, and...well…." Her breath hitches in her throat. "Would you be—?"

Tyrn rests his hand against Cassandra's cheek. In the dim lighting, he can see the faint glisten of unshed tears in her eyes. "Hey." His thumb runs along the scar above her left jawline. "Come here," he whispers, and she rests her head back down, curling into his chest. Tyrn wraps his arm around her shoulders and holds her tightly. He can feel the damp trail of a single tear as she finally allows it to fall, unburdened, onto his skin.

"Cass…." Tyrn presses a kiss to the top of her head; his breath stirs a few of her short, black hairs. "Let me tell you something true," he says. She shifts so that she can look up into his face, and Tyrn rests his forehead against hers. "I love you." He closes his eyes. "And you're enough for me."

"Then…."

"Then if we can't have kids, it will be my absolute joy to spend the rest of my life with you in our quiet home, reading books and drinking tea and taking shit from Varric about how boring we are." He feels her breathe out gently. "I thank the Maker every day for you, Cassandra," Tyrn murmurs. "Every day. And I always will." His hand cups her cheek; he can feel her lips trembling as they seal the moment with a long, tender kiss. "You are my everything," he breathes as they pull away.

Cassandra's eyes flicker with warmth and relief as she gazes into his face. "How is it that you always know what to say?" She asks, and then she kisses him again, softly. The taste of his smile lingers on her lips.

They lie in silence for a while, gazing at each other, and then Cassandra lays her head down with a grateful sigh. She traces invisible circles on his skin with one finger. Tyrn rests his chin atop her head and smiles.

"You know," Cassandra tells him, "I like our quiet life—Varric can say what he will." She presses a kiss to his chest. "I would not have it any other way."

Tyrn hums in agreement. "Nor would I," he says. There is a pause, and then he reaches up to stroke her arm. "Are you alright?"

She catches his hand and laces her fingers with his. "Yes. I...well, I'm okay with it, too—not having children, I mean." She blinks in the darkness. "I was more worried, I think, about telling you of my suspicions."

"Mmm. You know," Tyrn says, "the truth is that out of the two of us, it's more likely that _I'm_ the one who can't."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, I had the mark. That sort of magic can have...lasting effects. Apart from causing my arm to disintegrate, I mean."

Cassandra gazes up at him. "I hadn't considered that."

He offers a sad smile, his blue eyes bright in the darkness of the tent. "Or maybe it's both of us." Tyrn shrugs. "In any case, I suppose it doesn't matter."

"No." Cassandra brushes the backs of her fingers against his cheek. "What matters is that we have each other." Her eyes find his. "I love you."

Tyrn smiles. "And I, you," he whispers.

Cassandra presses her ear back down to his chest and listens to that heartbeat, steady and strong, as though the world itself hinges upon it. She breathes in his scent: _pine and autumn air and tanned leather_. At some point—though she does not recall when—her eyes flutter closed and she feels his breathing deepen, and the two of them drift off into a blissfully dreamless sleep.

* * *

Tyrn and Cassandra's eyes snap open in unison at the unmistakeable _scrape_ of a sword being pulled from its scabbard. A soldier clad in Templar-class armor stands above them, preparing to strike. Before Cassandra has time to reach the shield that lies within arm's reach, however, a crossbow bolt explodes through the would-be attacker's throat. A terrible gurgling noise emanates from his neck as he keels over, dead.

Varric's shout comes from the entrance of the tent: "Helluva wake up call, huh, lovebirds?" Another _thwack_ rings across the camp as the dwarf fires off a second bolt. Not far away, a man howls in pain.

Husband and wife scramble to their feet and immediately grab their armor and weapons. The wolf pup remains curled up on his bed, watching with wide eyes as they disappear outside. They burst into the morning air to see several men charging at Varric with swords and maces held high. The nearest one falls as a crossbow bolt strikes through one of the slats in his helmet.

Cassandra charges forward to meet the other two. She slams into one with her shield, causing him to stumble, and blocks an advance from the second with her sword. Tyrn darts to the side and catches the first attacker before he can stand; his fixed blade plunges through the man's breastplate and into his chest, while his dagger twirls and cuts upward through the jaw. The warrior crumples back to the ground.

Varric fires another bolt to stop an oncoming attacker, who falls just before she reaches Tyrn. Cassandra parries an attack as the second assailant swings his mace high. She shoves him backward and uses the momentum to drive her sword into his chest. Blood sprays across her face.

Another warrior charges toward Tyrn, shield held high. The elf leaps to the side. He rolls to avoid an overhead slash and comes to his feet in one fluid motion. Then he leaps again, spinning, his blades wreaking multiple devastating blows across the warrior's back. The warrior's grip on his shield falters as he falls to his knees; Varric fires off a shot that splits through the man's helmet, killing him instantly.

Tyrn rises, breathing heavily. The camp has fallen eerily silent.

"I think that's all of them," Varric says after a moment.

Tyrn looks down at a fallen attacker, examining his armor. "Who are they?"

Cassandra's face pulls back in a sneer. "The Order of Fiery Promise," She growls. "I should have known we hadn't seen the last of them at Caer Oswin." She turns over a body with the tip of her boot, frowning.

The eery silence is broken by the sound of a snapping twig from somewhere ahead of them. Varric raises his crossbow.

Tyrn hears the arrow before he sees it. It slices through the air beside him like a clarion call, whipping past even as Varric's bolt goes flying by in the opposite direction. There is a distinct series of _thwacks_ , a pained cry from the enemy archer, and a loud curse from Varric.

"Shit! Tyrn—" The dwarf's shout reaches him from across a chasm of time and space.

He knows, somehow, before he turns around to see it, before Cassandra's strangled gasp escapes her lips and before their eyes meet. Cold horror settles in his gut as he breathes her name and his gaze settles on the proof, that dread: black fletching glistens around the nock of a single arrow, embedded deeply in her abdomen.

 _She's been shot_.


	3. Chapter 3

**Hi all. Special thanks to everyone who reviewed my last chapters—I truly appreciate it! So, I originally planned to have more action in this chapter, but I got a bit carried away with some dialogue (as they say, sometimes characters have minds of their own). That said, I promise there will be more action in the next chapter. I hope you enjoy this one! All rights go to Bioware. As always, feel free to leave me a review :)**

* * *

"This is going to hurt." Tyrn looks down at his wife with an expression of concern as he rests his blade in the nearby fire, waiting for it to burn red with heat.

Cassandra presses her lips together in grim determination. "I know," she says simply. A trickle of sweat runs down her temple and onto the mat beneath her head.

The arrow cut straight through her leather armor; Tyrn doubts that he will ever forget the image of the broadhead protruding from her back, nor the ghastly sensation of having to cut and pull it the rest of the way through as Cassandra gasped in pain. Afterward, he applied some crushed elfroot leaves to the entry and exit wounds in order to help prevent infection and ease the worst of the discomfort. He had hoped that cauterization would not be necessary, but the entry wound has failed to stop bleeding.

Tyrn rotates his dagger in the flames as it begins to glow. He reaches for a strip of cloth and hands it to Cassandra. "Here," he murmurs. "You'll probably want this." She takes it with careful, trembling fingers. His blade has reached a bright, cruel color of fiery orange; his eyes meet hers. "Ready?" Tyrn asks.

Cassandra gives him a barely perceptible nod. As Tyrn lifts the blade from the flames, however, she reaches and clasps her hand around his forearm, giving him pause. "I'm sorry," he breathes. She pulls her lips into what he believes was supposed to be a reassuring smile, but it ends up looking more like a grimace as she sucks in a breath. Still, her eyes are sure; her grip softens.

"Don't be," she says. "Go ahead." He sees her chest rise and fall as she takes in a deep breath. Then her dark eyes snap to his and she bunches up the strip of cloth between her teeth.

With equal measures of regret and purpose, Tyrn presses the flame-kissed blade to Cassandra's wound. The flesh hisses and sputters as it burns, and her body goes rigid with pain as she digs her fingers into his sleeve, jaw clenched as she bites down on the cloth in a muffled, agonized cry. Going against the instincts that are screaming at him to stop, Tyrn holds the blade steady. _I have to make sure the bleeding has stopped_ , he reminds himself. He feels as though his chest is about to burst. Cassandra's grip continues to tighten; he will have a bruise to remind him of this later—not that he will need reminding, of course. It seems like an eternity goes by as he holds steady, although it cannot be more than a few seconds.

Finally, _finally_ , Tyrn pulls the blade away. Cassandra's head falls back; her hand remains firmly latched to his arm, however. "It's okay," he says, struggling to keep his own hand from shaking. "It's over. Now I'm just going to put another salve of elfroot over the top." Cassandra remains silent, breathing, as he crushes fresh elfroot leaves and applies them to the blackened— _no longer bleeding, thank the Maker_ —wound. "These will help the pain, as well." She already knows this, of course. Tyrn wonders if he is saying it more for himself than for her. When he is finished, he brushes his hand across her cheek and removes the cloth from her mouth.

She blinks slowly up at him. "Thank you," she croaks.

Tyrn bends closer so that he can rest his forehead against hers for a moment. "Rest, now," he whispers. "It will be time for you to drink another healing draught in a bit."

Cassandra's eyes flutter closed, but only for a moment; a warm, tickling sensation on her right cheek causes them to open again. One side of her mouth tugs into a faint smile as the wolf puppy licks her ear, whimpering softly. She reaches with one hand to ruffle his fur.

Tyrn smiles warmly. "Ah, good," he says. "He'll keep you honest. Strict bed rest, my lady." After a moment, the pup curls up at her side and rests his chin on her arm. Tyrn remains for a while—long enough for her breathing to slow and some amount of color to return to her cheeks—before he scoops up his dagger and heads to the other side of the camp, where Varric and a very unfortunate prisoner await him.

* * *

"How is she?" Varric asks Tyrn as he approaches.

The elf's blue eyes flicker in the dim, early-morning light. "Resting. The bleeding has stopped, but she'll need potion and salve regularly for a few days." He blinks.

Varric scuffs his boot against the ground and sighs in open relief. "She's tough."

"Yes." Tyrn's face settles into a grim expression as he gazes down at their prisoner. "She is."

The Promiser kneeling before them—tightly-bound and gagged, with a crossbow bolt still lodged in his shoulder—looks to be in his thirties. He has a grizzled, scarred face with eyes that appear as though they might normally be green, although right now they are so bloodshot that it is hard to be certain.

Tyrn rotates his blade arm, examining the play of light as it dances across the obsidian surface. "So," he begins, his eyes cutting back down to the prisoner, "We know you're of the Order of Fiery Promise. Now, tell me: how many more of you are there, and where are you holed up?" He nods to Varric, who unties the man's gag.

The prisoner coughs and spits on the ground, sneering. "I've got nothing to say to you, elf."

"Ah," Tyrn crosses his arms over his chest and tips his head up in consideration. "That's not the answer I was looking for. You see," he says, his blue eyes sharp; unyielding, "I'm normally quite reasonable when it comes to interrogation. However—" Tyrn rests the side of his blade against the crossbow bolt lodged in the man's shoulder and presses forcefully, causing the bolt to bend and tear at the tissues within. The Promiser shouts in pain. The elf leans closer; his voice is as cold as his winter-blue eyes. "—you shot my wife."

Tyrn pulls his weapon back and crosses his arms once again. The prisoner coughs, shaking from the pain, and his bloodshot eyes are bulging. "You...you will all burn in the Maker's fire. We, the true Seekers, will...we will destroy this world, and a Paradise will be born from its ashes!"

Varric rolls his eyes heavily. "Yeah, yeah. We've heard your cultist mumbo-jumbo before. Not impressed."

"This will be much easier for everyone involved if you just tell us what we want to know," Tyrn growls. "Now, let's try again: how many of you are there?" His blade hovers dangerously close to the protruding crossbow bolt.

The Promiser glares up at his captors, defiant, although he is shaking slightly.

Tyrn sighs heavily. "Come, now. You failed to complete your mission...what use is this defiance? Somehow I think your superiors won't take kindly to you returning with nothing but bad news and a handful of dead men."

The man's face twists into an ugly, cruel grin. A cold sound escapes his lips; it takes Tyrn a moment to realize that he is laughing. "All of you will burn," the Promiser snarls, "starting with your precious _Lady Seeker_."

Tyrn grabs the crossbow bolt and twists; the man howls in pain. " _How many men_?"

The prisoner continues to shout, spittle flying from his lips, but Tyrn does not loosen his grip. "T-twenty!" The man finally sputters. "No more than twenty men!"

"Be specific," Varric growls from behind him.

"Agh," the man's bloodshot eyes are wide with pain. Tyrn wrenches the shaft further still, and the prisoner continues: "Twelve!" He cries. "Twelve."

"Only twelve?" Tyrn releases his grip and the man slumps forward, coughing. "Why so few?" His blue eyes linger on the prisoner; fresh blood from the irritated wound is slowly painting his tunic red.

After a moment, the Promiser grunts and drags in a ragged breath. "There were nineteen of us before this morning," he mutters. Slowly, his bloodshot eyes snake up to Varric, who is circling in front of him now. "Curse your dwarf friend," he spits. "If he hadn't warned you two…."

"I do love ruining people's plans," Varric quips. He rolls his shoulders with a grunt.

Tyrn scuffs his boot against the ground. "You weren't expecting Varric to be here," he says.

"No."

"Alright, then. Tell us where the rest of you are hiding." Tyrn stares into the grizzled face of their captive, waiting.

"I don't think so."

"Seriously?" Varric groans. "You already told us how many men you have. You might as well tell us where they're at, too." He looks to the elf. "This guy doesn't have much sense, does he?"

 _We aren't very good at this interrogation thing,_ Tyrn muses. _It's too bad Leliana isn't here.._. _although I suppose it wouldn't exactly be_ appropriate _for the Divine to conduct an interrogation_.

Suddenly, the prisoner erupts into a fit of shouting as his body goes rigid with pain. He throws his head back; the veins in his neck are thick and distended as his skin turns an unhealthy shade of scarlet. Varric and Tyrn exchange a look of surprise, then turn in unison to see Cassandra standing with one arm braced across her stomach, her face scrunched into a look of pale concentration.

"You Promisers have always been careless with your lyrium use," she says, scowling. The wolf pup is standing just behind her. His tiny head peeks around her leg and a somewhat less-than-intimidating growl emanates from his throat. The prisoner chokes, unable to respond, as Cassandra continues: "I would guess by the look of you that you've recently taken at least twice the recommended dose for Templars. You do realize it will destroy your body, yes?" Her brow is damp with sweat; still, she presses on. "I am not as patient as my husband. Tell us where the rest of your Order is hiding, or I will use the lyrium in your blood to burn your insides to a crisp."

"Ack—th...there's a…." The captive struggles to speak in between his throes of pain. Tears stream down his face, the shade of which is quickly going from scarlet to a deathly shade of purple. "A tower...a day's—a day's journey...west."

"And?"

"A—and...it's...on a hill, overlooking a river. Follow the water—a secret entrance. I swear...the truth! I swear it, please!" He gasps, spit bubbling in his mouth, and Cassandra relents with a sigh of exhaustion.

Tyrn rushes to her. Cassandra leans heavily on his shoulder for a moment as she musters her strength.

Varric is still staring at her, mouth agape in something akin to horror. "Holy shit, Seeker. If I'd known you could do that…."

"I only use it when needed." She grunts, taking a deep breath. "Don't worry, Varric. It only works on people who use lyrium. You have nothing to fear."

"Good to know," the dwarf says. "I would probably be dead by now, otherwise. Shit."

Cassandra snorts weakly, one arm still holding rigidly to her abdomen, where her wound is tightly bound and hidden. Tyrn watches her carefully. "You alright?" He asks.

"I will be, yes. It...requires a lot of energy to do that."

"You should take another potion."

"Yes, dear," Cassandra says, but her eyes are warm as they light on him.

The sound of the prisoner's eerie laugh slowly reaches their ears, drawing their attention back to him. He throws his head back again and stares at the sky. His skin is still red; his face is covered in spittle and tears. "It doesn't matter," he chokes in between those disturbing cackles. "Nothing you do matters! You'll burn! You'll all burn…." The prisoner devolves into maniacal laughter, his body shaking violently as he continues to gaze at the sky with bloodshot eyes.

Varric aims Bianca at the man's head, giving Tyrn and Cassandra a questioning look. "I'm gonna assume that he's either crazy and he'll try to kill _us_ the second we let him go, or he's crazy and he'll try to kill _himself_ the second we let him go."

Tyrn levels his gaze on the Promiser with a grim expression. "I agree. We should probably put him out of his misery."

With that, Varric fires his crossbow, killing the man instantly. "Ugh," the dwarf grunts uneasily as the body crumples to the ground. "What a creep." He holsters his crossbow and stoops down to pick up the puppy, who happily licks his fingers. Varric looks up at Tyrn. "Have I told you lately that weird shit happens to you?"

"Mmm. It's been a few years, actually." The elf ensures that Cassandra can stand on her own before fishing around in his nearby pack for a healing draught. He hands it to her and watches her drink before looking back to Varric. "I suppose we're past due, aren't we?"

"Ah," the dwarf sighs. "I had hoped we were done with this stuff, honestly."

"Me, too, Varric." Tyrn reaches over to rub the puppy's ears. "Me, too."

* * *

"I'm coming with you." Cassandra releases a breath through her teeth as Tyrn finishes binding her wound for the fourth time today. The elfroot draughts and poultices have helped considerably; each hour, more color returns to her cheeks, and she is able to stand and walk with relative ease when the potions are at full effect. When her husband is finished, she pulls her leather armor over her head with a slight wince.

Tyrn gives her a stern look. "Absolutely not," he says. When she shoots him a stubborn glare, he continues: "It hasn't even been a full day yet. If you push yourself, you'll get worse."

Cassandra lifts her chin. "You know as well as I how quickly elfroot works. The potions should have already cleared out any chance of infection, and I'm feeling well enough to travel. If you think I'm going to let you two infiltrate that tower without me…."

"Cassandra..."

"The Order of Fiery Promise attacked me directly because they know I was instrumental in rebuilding the Seekers," she presses on. "It's my responsibility to take care of them."

Varric coughs awkwardly from somewhere behind them. The couple turns to see him watching them carefully. He raises an eyebrow at Tyrn. "You know, Stumpy, you're probably fighting a losing battle. Might as well just let her come with." He shifts and tugs at the collar of his jacket. "Unless, of course, you _like_ the idea of her smothering you in your sleep."

"Nonsense. I would never use such a cowardly method." Cassandra smirks.

Tyrn sighs and runs a hand through his short, snowy hair. "Maker's breath." He sighs and looks to his wife. "Alright, then. But promise me you won't overdo it."

"We can travel slowly," she offers. "There's no need to rush, as I see it."

"And we have plenty of elfroot left," Varric chimes in.

Tyrn presses his lips into a thin line. The idea doesn't sit well with him, but he knows that Varric is right: Cassandra has never been one to sit back and let others fight for her—injured or not. And elfroot really _does_ work quickly; he knows it well enough after suffering a myriad of injuries during his time as Inquisitor, and even before that, when he was simply a hunter for his Dalish clan. It is likely that the tissues from Cassandra's injury are already beginning to mend.

"Okay," he sighs, pushing that nagging sense of _not right_ to the back of his mind. "Let's pack our things and head out."

* * *

It is late into the afternoon by the time they strike off into the woods once again, heading west. Tyrn remains close by Cassandra's side. Her breathing is slightly more labored than usual, and he doesn't miss the catches in her breath when they are required to vault over a fallen tree or scramble up a rocky shelf; still, considering the nature of her wound, Cassandra seems to be doing quite well.

At some point, she catches him looking after her with a lingering expression of concern, and she offers him an encouraging smile. "I'm fine, love," she says. Her gloved hand finds his. "You worry too much." Tyrn hums thoughtfully and gives her fingers a gentle squeeze before they pull away and find themselves looking down a steep river bank.

"This must be the river our Promiser told us about," Varric says. The wolf pup is nestled in the bend of his arm. "Looks like it curves west up ahead."

"You're probably right. Come on; let's follow it." Tyrn continues on, and the three walk in silence for a while. Eventually, the steep slope of the river bank evens out until they are almost level with the water.

Varric pauses to set the cub down and watches him lap at the crystal surface. "You guys think of a name yet?" He asks his companions. The puppy finishes drinking, and Tyrn scoops him up this time. The cub stretches his neck so that he can lick the elf's chin.

"Not yet," Tyrn answers, chuckling. He adjusts his grip so that the cub can sit more comfortably in his arm, its light eyes peering out over the fabric of his jacket to watch the world pass by.

Varric picks up a small, flat stone and attempts to skip it across the water. It hops once before splashing with a light _plunk_ and sinking below the surface. "Damn," he grunts. "Never did get the hang of that." He looks back to Tyrn; the pup is currently licking the leather of the elf's glove. "Well," he says, "As long as it's not something awful and cliche, like Fluffy or...what's another one that people in Kirkwall use all the time? Fido? Jake?"

Cassandra leans over to pick up a smooth pebble for herself, and flicks her wrist as she lets it fly. It skips once, twice, three times before sinking.

"Heh," Varric huffs. "Not bad, Seeker."

"Thank you."

"So you _are_ good at something besides beating people up."

Cassandra rolls her eyes. "Ugh." She picks up another rock and skips it. This time, it makes four jumps. "The key," she says, glancing over at Varric, "is choosing the right stone. That, and making sure you flick your wrist." She spots a coin-sized, relatively flat rock and hands it to Varric. "Here."

The dwarf scrunches his face in concentration as he flings the stone, eliciting a snort of laughter from Tyrn. Still, the rock skips twice before sinking. "Huh," he grunts thoughtfully. "So you're, what, a stone-skipping expert? Maybe that should be your new nickname: Skipper."

"Please don't," Cassandra sighs. She looks over at Tyrn with an air of amusement. "Tyrn used to be very good at it, actually. I once saw him skip a stone six times."

The elf chuckles thoughtfully. "Yes. Unfortunately," he glances back at Varric, "my left hand was my 'skipping' hand. I'm afraid I'm probably not any better at it with my right than you are." His lips pull up into a smirk.

Varric grunts and adjusts one of the straps on his pack. "Gee, thanks, Stumpy." He laughs softly. "Really, though. You guys actually went and skipped rocks together?"

Cassandra and Tyrn exchange a confused look. "Well, yes," Tyrn says. "What's so strange about that?"

"Nothing, it's just—" The dwarf laughs again, his chest rumbling. "You guys are so…." He rubs the stubble on his chin as he searches for the right word. " _Sappy_."

"We are not!" Cassandra protests.

"Well of course _you_ don't think so," Varric kicks a few loose rocks into the water and watches with satisfaction as they leave a trail of bubbles to the bottom. "Which only proves my point."

Cassandra sighs. She exchanges a warm glance with Tyrn, however, and judging by Varric's exasperated snort, his point is proven once again. "Anyway," he drawls as they follow the curve of the river, "we were discussing names."

"Right." Tyrn looks down to see that the cub has fallen asleep. _It must be nice_ , he thinks, _to have such a simple life_. "Hmm...maybe we should name him after someone."

"Please don't say Corypheus," Varric jests.

Cassandra laughs for a moment before she hums, thinking. "Felix, perhaps?"

"That's a decent idea," The dwarf agrees. "He did stand up for us when he went back to Tevinter, apparently. Let's hear some others."

"Roderick?" Tyrn offers.

Cassandra sighs. "I would also like that one, except that we will end up calling him 'Rod' for short."

Varric shoots her a questioning look. "What's wrong with that?"

"I dislike the name. It's a long story."

Tyrn glances back at him, his blue eyes calm and somewhat amused. "She's right. Don't ask."

"Huh." The dwarf grunts, wondering what sort of story it may be for a moment, before he decides not to pry. He scuffs a few more stones into the water. "Well...how about Alistair?"

Cassandra nods thoughtfully, bracing an arm across her stomach for a moment as she experiences a sudden jolt of pain. Tyrn gives her a sharp look; she grunts and straightens her back, hoping he won't say anything. "I like it," she says to Varric. "I'm not quite sure how Alistair would feel, knowing that we named a wolf after him, of all things, but...perhaps it could be a way to honor his memory."

"Yes," Tyrn agrees. "Although it _is_ possible that he survived—in which case, we might be able to ask him someday." His eyes drift to the damp grass at his feet. It is highly unlikely, of course.

Swiftly and without warning, a whisper of a memory skates across Tyrn's mind: _Pray, Inquisitor, when all this is done, you do not regret the choices you made. You may find some things are harder to bear than others_. Grand Enchanter Fiona's words echo in his mind—a grave, unwelcome, pitiless thing that coils itself in his gut before he swallows and brings himself back to the present.

"Yeah." Varric sounds about as skeptical as Tyrn himself. "Well, in any case, I think it's a good name."

"I suppose it's settled, then," Cassandra reaches for the sleeping bundle of fur in Tyrn's good arm and rubs his head affectionately. "Alistair it is." Tyrn hums in agreement as they continue on, following the river as it takes them west, toward the sun.

* * *

Cassandra is growing increasingly pale. At first, Tyrn assumes it is just the reaching shadows as afternoon shifts into evening and the sky begins to dim. But the more he checks on her, the more tired she seems to look, and the more he worries. They change her bandage once and she drinks another healing draught; for a while, it seems to help: a slight amount of color returns to her cheeks. But it doesn't last.

The first time she stumbles, she tells him that she tripped on a rock. Varric cracks some joke about her clumsiness and Cassandra rolls her eyes as she always does. She tries to hide that flicker of uncertainty fluttering in her chest, but Tyrn sees a shadow of it on her face, lurking, when their eyes meet.

Then she loses her footing again, and this time Tyrn is close enough to catch her arm and hold her steady. Cassandra's face is close to his, her breath quick. The uncertainty has become more, now. It has become fear.

Varric doesn't joke about it this time.

A heavy weight drops to the bottom of Tyrn's gut, where it settles into a cold, painful sort of dread. _Something's wrong_.

"The sun has started to go down," Varric says carefully. "Maybe we should make camp." Tyrn can feel Cassandra's arm shaking where he caught her; he gently sets Alistair down in the grass behind them.

Their eyes meet. "Cass?" Tyrn whispers her name.

Her forehead is beaded with sweat. "Tyrn, I think…." Cassandra attempts to take a step forward, but her legs buckle beneath her. Varric rushes to grab her other arm, and the two of them support her as she sinks to the ground. She swallows heavily. "I can't…." That fear in her eyes is so bright now, stark and terrifying as she stares into his face, searching for solid ground.

"Easy, now," Tyrn says. He wraps his arm under her shoulder to give her more support. "We've got you," he breathes. "Cass? I need you to tell me what's wrong. Where does it hurt?"

The tremor in her arm has spread to the rest of her limbs. "Tyrn," she chokes, "I can't feel my legs."

* * *

"Well, it doesn't look like there's any infection." Tyrn is kneeling beside Cassandra in a hastily-constructed tent, examining her wound. It appears as though the elfroot has been doing its job: already, the cauterized flesh has gone from the charred hue of freshly burned skin to a subdued red, and there is no swelling. It will not require debridement (much to Tyrn's relief). The elf shifts his knees in the grass and leans over to apply a fresh poultice of the helpful little plant's leaves. Cassandra remains silent, watching.

From behind them, Varric clears his throat. "I'll bet that arrow was poisoned, Stumpy," he says darkly. He, too, is kneeling as he cuts small chunks of bear meat and feeds them to Alistair, who tears into them happily with his needle-like puppy teeth.

A fresh tremor runs through Cassandra's body; she clenches her jaw. Tyrn squeezes her hand tightly and waits for the shaking to subside. When it finally does, she releases a tight breath. "Of course it was," she grunts, still clinging to her husband's hand. "I should have known." Her eyes meet his, and he detects that flicker of fear from earlier. Now, however, it is mixed with determination.

Tyrn sighs in a vain attempt to keep his own fear at bay. "No wonder that Promiser seemed so assured," he growls. The man's words echo eerily in his mind: _All of you will burn, starting with your precious_ Lady Seeker. He closes his eyes until the image of the man's bloodshot eyes dissipates. Then he takes a deep breath. "We have to get to that tower."

"I agree," Varric says. "There may be a chance they have some sort of antidote." He gives Alistair the last of his meal and wipes his hands in the grass.

Cassandra lets her arm rest gently across her abdomen after Tyrn finishes dressing the wound. A troubled expression settles across her features. "Just the two of you?"

"Aw," Varric stands and tips his head in mock concern. "She's worried about us, Stumpy." Cassandra snorts weakly.

Tyrn chuckles as he pulls himself to his feet. "One moment, love," he says to his wife, and then he nods to the dwarf. Varric leaves Alistair beside Cassandra—the cub immediately begins nibbling on her ear, eliciting a soft laugh from her—and follows Tyrn out into the evening air. The two stand before the small fire they built earlier, watching the embers rise into the sky.

After a moment, Varric crosses his arms over his chest and looks up at his friend, waiting. Tyrn stares into the flames. "I'm going alone," he finally says.

The dwarf scowls up at him. "Like hell you are."

"Varric—"

"Like _hell_ , Tyrn. If you think I'm going to let you go in there alone with who knows how many of those lunatics—"

"There are only twelve." Tyrn tips his head up and gazes through the branches.

Varric snorts derisively. "Yeah, according to some crazed prisoner. Hardly a credible source of information. For all we know, this could be another part of their insane plan." He scuffs his boot in the grass, still scowling. "I can't let you go alone."

Tyrn takes in a deep breath and shifts so that he can face the dwarf. His winter-blue eyes are calm, steady, sure. "Varric, listen to me," he rests a hand on his shoulder, urging him to hear. "I need you stay with her."

Varric gives him a conflicted look, his brows drawn low in frustration. "She's fine. It won't take us long…."

"No." Tyrn shakes his head. "What do you think will happen if they send out another patrol, or if a bear happens upon the camp? She can't _walk_ , Varric."

"Alistair will protect her."

Tyrn snorts. "In a few years, maybe." He waits for a moment. "We don't know how the poison progresses. If it continues to get worse…." He trails off for a moment, struggling to keep himself from finishing that sentence in his mind. He can't even consider that now. Not yet.

Varric sighs heavily and rubs the back of his neck. "Andraste's sacred knickers, Tyrn," he mutters. "You realize she'll kill us both for this, right?"

The elf hums in agreement. "Give me a moment with her."

"Well, Maker go with you," Varric half-jests. Tyrn smirks as he makes his way back to the tent, and Varric watches him with an expression of pity. _Order of Fiery Promise, be damned_ , the dwarf muses. _I would face a thousand of them before I risked Cassandra's wrath_.

* * *

"You must be joking." Cassandra gazes up into the face of her love with an expression of exasperation and defiance.

Tyrn scoops Alistair onto his lap and ruffles the pup's dusky fur. "I'm not." The cub latches onto the thumb of his glove and tugs. After a few moments of great effort, he manages to pull the glove completely off of Tyrn's hand; thus satisfied, he parades around the tent with it, pausing now and then to shake it vigorously back and forth. "Well, I see we'll have our hands full when he gets bigger."

Cassandra sighs. "Tyrn."

He turns his bright gaze back to her, his lips pulled downward in a slight frown. "You know I can't leave you here alone," he murmurs. "And out of the two of us, I'm more suited to subterfuge. I'll have a better chance at this than Varric."

She continues to glare at him. "Well then, if you could just wait for another day or two, I might get better, and—"

"Cass."

"No. I won't allow it. I _can't_. You don't even know if they have an antidote. You don't know anything except what that prisoner told you, and even those could be lies. I can't let you...I can't." She grips his good arm, clinging to him. They fall silent for a moment; behind them, Alistair settles himself in the grass and chews on the pinkie finger of Tyrn's glove.

"Cassandra," Tyrn ventures, "this is our only chance. Do you think I can just sit here and wait for the poison to run its course?" She doesn't say anything. "This isn't easy for me, leaving you here. You know that. But I don't have a choice. We both know you'll need an antidote for this...if there's even a _chance_ they have one there, I need to go." He gently tugs his arm up until her hand slides into his, and he clasps her fingers.

Her brown eyes are wide and sad, but devoid of their previous anger. "Promise me you'll come back."

Tyrn leans forward to smooth a tuft of her short hair behind her ear. "You have my word," he whispers.

She leans into his touch as he lays his hand against her cheek. "No unnecessary risks," she says.

"Never." He rests his forehead against hers in their customary gesture of affection, then presses a kiss to her temple. "I'll be back before you know it," he breathes.

As he pulls away, Cassandra reaches out once again; she rests her hand against his cheek this time, anchoring herself to the image of those crisp blue eyes. She memorizes the slope of his nose, the curve of his lips, the cut of his jaw; the way that scar bisects his left eyebrow and divides the branch-like pattern of his _vallaslin_ as it runs across his cheekbones; the drift of his short, snow-colored hair as a few strands fall across his forehead. All of these things, she knows so well—and yet it is as though she is seeing them again for the first time.

A flash of deep, aching sorrow passes over his face. He presses his hand against hers and closes his eyes. Then he holds her fingers in his own and brushes a kiss atop her knuckles. He thinks he should say goodbye, perhaps, but he is afraid to say it, afraid to let it cross his lips, lest it become his _last_ goodbye. Instead, he simply looks once more into her eyes.

"I love you," Tyrn whispers.

Cassandra takes in an unsteady breath. "And I, you," she returns. "Always."

"Always." He echoes quietly.

And with that, Tyrn pulls himself to his feet (it's strange, how his legs suddenly feel as though they are made of stone). He removes his glove from little Alistair's grip and pulls it over his hand. The pinkie finger has a small hole through which he can see his skin now; Tyrn grunts in amusement and scoops the cub into his arms. "Right, then," he says, "I expect you to take good care of your mother while I'm away. I'm sure she has nothing to fear with such a ferocious protector as you." Alistair licks his chin happily before Tyrn sets him down beside Cassandra. He gives his wife one last, lingering glance, laden with an immeasurable number of unspoken words, and heads back outside.

* * *

"Well, I have to say, I'm surprised you made it out of there alive," Varric grunts as Tyrn finishes adjusting the clasps on his crafted arm. "Then again, you do look a little more...well... _dead_ than you did before you went in."

Tyrn sighs and hefts his small pack of supplies—potions, traps, and smoke bombs, mostly (thank the Maker that Varric is so adept at constructing deadly contraptions out of little more than sticks and scraps of metal). "Do you remember the way back to our home?" he asks the dwarf.

"Yeah, I remember."

"Good." Tyrn tugs on the collar of his cloak. "I need you to make your way back there. Send a raven to Leliana—tell her everything that's happened. She should still be in Haven, unless the Chantry has urgent business for her."

"Hold on," Varric frowns. "I thought I was waiting here for you?"

Tyrn levels him with a steady gaze. "If there is no antidote in that tower, then waiting here will be a waste of time. Besides," he tips his head, regarding his friend, "you'll probably need to construct a sled of some sort to pull Cassandra, unless you plan to carry her all the way there. If they _do_ have the antidote, then with any luck I'll be able to catch up to you two before you make it home. And if I don't make it back in time—"

"You will."

"—then we'll need to find another way to rid Cassandra of the poison. Leliana's spy network is vast. I would say she's our best shot at finding a solution."

Varric releases a sigh through his teeth. "Ah, alright." He looks up at his friend. "Be safe, Stumpy."

Tyrn smiles sadly. "You too, Chest Hair."

The dwarf chuckles. "Shit. You'd better make it back here. If you don't, I'll be the first one she kills."

"Ah, don't worry. Alistair will protect you."

"Heh. Maybe in a few years."

"Maybe." Tyrn smirks, his eyes sparkling by the light of the fire, and then he turns to go. Before he makes it to the edge of the camp, however, he hears Varric call after him. He spins around.

"Tyrn," Varric catches up to him, then reaches out and grabs his blade arm, clutching the obsidian carefully. "Listen to me. This does not make you a cripple," he says, lightly shaking the blade. "Don't let it slow you down. Don't second guess yourself because of it. _Use_ it as an advantage." He stares up at him intensely. "What you may think you lack here, you make up for _here_ ," he pokes forcefully at Tyrn's chest, "and _here_." He finishes by pointing at Tyrn's head. "Don't forget that."

The elf watches him with a look of surprise and subtle gratitude. "Thanks, Varric."

"Sure." Varric folds his arms across his chest. "And...don't worry. I'll watch over her." A brief silence passes, and then: "Now get out there and kick some ass." Tyrn chuckles as he turns to go, and the dwarf watches him disappear into the trees; under the shadow of night, the elf folds into the darkness like a letter sealed and sent, and Varric hopes he will see his friend return by the light of the sun.


	4. Chapter 4

**Hi all. Special thanks to Tech88, who always leaves me a lovely review! I hope you guys enjoy this chapter :) Also, a small note: " _Dareth shiral"_ is elvish for "goodbye" in the Dragon Age world. According to Dragon Age Wiki, its literal translation is "safe journey". Anyway, enjoy! All rights go to Bioware, as always. **

* * *

The tower is not a remarkable structure in itself; it is a rather plain, weathered landmark that rises out of the river's apex like a pale tombstone. Rubble is scattered around it—the remnants of what was likely the rest of the keep at one time, although now it is little more than dust and broken stone, leftover from some long-forgotten battle. How the tower alone managed to remain standing, Tyrn does not know.

What he _does_ know is that he must get inside—soon.

So far, the Promiser's information appears correct. The sun has yet to rise, but even in the darkness, Tyrn can see where the river flows through a passage at the tower's base. _That must be where the hidden entrance is_. There is a main door further up, where the river bank rises to meet the stone and a makeshift gate has been erected to bar the way. Tyrn can make out the shifting forms of two archers on the wooden wall. _That leaves ten more inside—assuming our prisoner told the truth_.

His eyes flick to the river as he considers his approach. Under the cover of darkness, he should be able to follow the water and slip inside through the hidden entrance; the archers have a decent vantage point, but he has done more with less in the past.

Tyrn takes a deep breath and kneels in the grass with his head bowed. _Maker_ , he prays, _watch over Cassandra. Be my strength as I go into this fight. Let my blades strike true; let there be an antidote for what ails my wife; let my feet carry me swiftly back to her_.

The elf runs a hand through his short, snow-colored hair as he steels himself. Then he shoulders his pack and moves silently through the bushes along the riverbank, melding into the shadows with practiced ease.

* * *

Tyrn slips closer to the water as he nears the base of the tower. The river flows through a low, open tunnel; it is high enough, however, that the elf can almost stand at his full height (he has to keep his head down in order to prevent it from banging against the stone ceiling), and the water reaches just above his knees. He searches for some kind of door along the wall for a time, his hand brushing against the cold surface, until he spots a trapdoor above him.

 _Ah, here we are_. Tyrn reaches for the handle in the darkness and pushes lightly. _Locked, of course_. His boots are soaked through by now; the water this time of year is terribly cold. Shivering, the elf takes a lockpick from his belt and fidgets with the lock for a few moments. Since losing his arm, he has had to learn to do it one-handed—it is not an easy task, by any means, but Varric has helped him become relatively proficient at it over the years, and the process of learning has become a sort of hobby for the elf. Tyrn closes his eyes as he maneuvers through the tumblers. Carefully, he fixes each one into place with a series of satisfying _clicks_.

The final tumbler shifts down and Tyrn releases a breath through his nose as the lock is undone. For him, that telling _click-thump_ as a lock opens has always been a simple but treasured joy; it is one of those strange, lasting delights he has kept with him since he was a child—that, and the taste of truly well-prepared tea.

Tyrn slowly lifts the trapdoor, pausing to listen before opening it completely. He catches the glow of what must be a single candle coming from the otherwise darkened room, and he cannot hear any obvious signs of activity over the sound of the river flowing past his knees. Carefully, he pulls himself up through the opening, struggling to keep his blade from scraping across the floor. He kicks his legs up and heaves himself the rest of the way through; water from his river-soaked boots collects on the stone beneath him as he surveys the room. It appears to be a storage area. Sacks of grain and weathered boxes are stacked against the walls; old blankets are folded neatly in the far corner, and a single desk with a small bit of parchment and a burning candle squats before him, its chair unoccupied. Tyrn finds with disappointment that the paper is blank.

Someone is coming. The sound of a single set of footsteps echoes from beyond the door; judging by the slow, rhythmic pace, Tyrn guesses that the person is in no hurry. He slips to the side of the door, pressing his back to the wall, and readies his blades.

The elven man who enters has just long enough to see that the trapdoor is open before Tyrn presses the edge of a dagger to his throat and forces him backward into the shadows.

"Quiet," he orders, and the hostage chokes in fear.

"P—please, ser," the elf whispers, "I'm just a servant here. I don't want any trouble."

Tyrn does not loosen his grip. Shifting slightly, he presses the wooden door closed with his boot and frowns. Considering the elf's shabby clothes and bare feet, he is inclined to believe him, but he can't be too careful. "The men who occupy this tower—who are they?"

The elf swallows heavily. His eyes rest on the small hole in Tyrn's glove, so close to his throat, where Alistair chewed the leather away. "The Order of Fiery Promise, ser," he says. "There are only twelve men left, though, aside from myself."

"Good." Tyrn adjusts his arm; the dagger flashes in the candlelight. "Now...they've made some sort of poison in this tower. It's resistant to elfroot. Do you know of it?"

"I've...heard talk among the masters." He swallows again. "I'll tell you anything, milord. I serve the Order because they gave me no choice, but I swear, I have no love for them, ser."

Tyrn weighs his thoughts for a moment, then relaxes his grip and lets the dagger fall away from the other elf's throat. "Very well," he says, his blue eyes glinting in the darkness as the servant steps away. "Tell me what you know of this poison—quickly."

The servant regards him warily. His mouse-brown hair is pulled back and tied messily, as though done in a hurry. His skin looks drawn and tired; sharp cheekbones protrude acutely from a sunken, malnourished face, and above them, pale green eyes are wide and fearful. His _vallaslin_ is comprised of several intricate, tree-like patterns across his forehead and down his nose and chin. He looks to be no older than twenty, although it is difficult to know for sure. Tyrn surmises that he appears older than his actual age.

"I—I don't know much, ser. I _do_ know that it was made specifically for Seekers." Dread curls in Tyrn's stomach at these words; he blinks, and the image of Cassandra's pained, fearful expression stares back at him. The elf continues: "They've been working on the formula for some time now."

"Is there an antidote?"

The servant's eyes dart back and forth as he searches his memory. "I don't know, ser."

 _Shit._ "Where is this poison being made?" Tyrn asks.

"At the top of the tower. I'm not sure why...something about the atmosphere being important for the brewing process, I think."

Tyrn fiddles with one of the clasps on his crafted arm. "What's the fastest way to the top?"

"There...well, there is only _one_ way, milord," the man answers. "Straight out of this door. Four flights of stairs, with a room at the top of each one. A ladder in the highest chamber will take you to the roof."

"Very well."

"Ser, this early in the morning, most of the men will be in the dining hall. It's on the third level."

Tyrn raises an eyebrow at him. "Thank you," he says. "What is your name?"

The servant looks down at his hands. "Lewin, ser," he answers. "The Order of Fiery Promise found me in the forest about a year ago and forced me into servitude. I was away from my clan at the time, gathering healing herbs to bring back for our Keeper."

"Mmm. Your clan is safe, then?"

"Yes...as far as I know, that is. It's been a year, after all."

Tyrn crosses his arms as he regards Lewin, his head tipped slightly to the side. "Well, Lewin, I don't plan on leaving the rest of this tower's inhabitants intact. If you want to find your clan, I suggest you go now, and quickly. Follow the river until the tower is out of sight—and watch for the archers posted on the gate."

The servant's eyes widen in surprise and gratitude. "Yes, ser," he stammers. "Thank you, ser." He turns to go out the trap door, looking over his shoulder. "I wish you luck."

Tyrn nods briskly. " _Dareth shiral_ ," he says.

" _Dareth shiral_." And with that, Lewin steps down through the trapdoor and into the water below, disappearing from sight.

* * *

Tyrn climbs the first flight of stairs and discovers that the next floor—the tower's kitchen—is empty. A large, well-worn table stands in the middle of the room; vegetables, herbs, and grains are stored on racks against the far wall, and a few skinned rabbits are stretched out atop the table, waiting to be prepared. A fireplace to his left bathes the room in warmth and color. The faint scent of crushed garlic and roasted meat permeates the air.

Finding nothing of immediate use, the elf continues up the next set of stairs, the soles of his damp boots whispering against the stone as he climbs. He silently counts the steps as he goes: two, four...eight, ten...the twelfth step spits him out at the entrance to a dimly-lit hallway. About halfway down, there is a door on either side, both of which are slightly ajar. A wedge of light and the dull _hum_ of voices comes from the door on the right. Tyrn readies his blades and creeps along the wall to the right until the voices become more distinct; he presses his back to the stone and listens.

"—up, we're already late for chow." A gravelly male voice drifts from inside the room. There is the subtle scraping of armor as the man presumably adjusts his platemail.

 _This must be the barracks_. Tyrn runs a thumb along the handle of his blade, waiting.

A second, slightly-less-gravelly voice grumbles a reply: "Oh, relax. I don't know why we eat so early, anyhow. Doesn't anyone value sleep in this shit hole?"

"Maybe if you didn't stay up so late, reading that trash book of yours...who did you say it was by? Techas? Tetran?"

A mattress creaks in protest as one of them flops down and grunts, perhaps to fasten his boots. " _Tethras,_ you nimrod. And it's not trash."

"Whatever," the other growls. "It's about the Inquisitor. That means it's garbage. And anyway, do you know what the Lord Promiser will do if he finds out you have it?"

"There's nothing wrong with researching our enemy. Not that he's really much of a threat anymore...but anyway, the Lord Promiser hardly ever comes down from his chambers these days. He'll never know."

"Eh," the other man grunts, and there is the distinct sound of a sword being slid into its sheath, "I still wouldn't be caught wiping my ass with it." There is a frustrated sigh.

"What?"

"Did you hear about Joseph?"

"'Course I did. Everyone has." The mattress creaks again as he stands.

"Damn shame."

Something heavy is slammed shut. "He _did_ volunteer to have it tested on him."

"Yeah, well, you would think his loyalty would be rewarded. I thought they brewed an antidote for us, just in case?" At this, Tyrn sucks in a breath as he listens, his body tense with anticipation.

Another sigh. "They did. I know they did, because they wouldn't stop talking about the quality of its color, for some reason. 'The clearest blue'."

 _Thank the Maker_.

"Well?"

"Well, what?" The man snorts. "That's the point of _testing_ , isn't it? How do we know if a poison or an antidote will work, otherwise? It was designed for Seekers, after all. _False_ Seekers, I mean. Ahem."

An uncomfortable silence ensues. Then: "Right, well, let's just drop it. We'll drink to Joseph tonight. And no, you can't skip out just because you want to read your stupid book. Now let's get upstairs before the meat is gone." The sound of their heavy footsteps grows louder as they approach the door; Tyrn stands and breathes in through his nose.

"I can't believe you like the food here. It's complete garbage. For all we know, it's—"

Whatever he was about to say never comes, for the door swings fully open and Tyrn's blade slices deep into his throat, spraying blood across the floor. The second man's eyes go wide and he reaches for his sword, too late; the elf spins and plunges his dagger through the side of his skull. Both men crumple to the floor in unison, dead.

 _Right, then_. Tyrn wipes the blood from his daggers on a nearby mattress and checks the other room to be sure it's empty. _Eight left upstairs, with two archers still posted on the gate outside_. He closes both doors and continues swiftly down the hall.

 _So there is an antidote, after all, if what those two lugs were saying is true_. Still, he is unsure about its effectiveness. Cassandra is the first Seeker they've managed to poison; there is no way to know for sure if the cure will work until he uses it. _Maker, let it work_ , he breathes a fleeting prayer as he heads for the next flight of stairs. _Let it work_.

* * *

"This is preposterous." Cassandra scowls up at the trees as she passes them by, pulled along on a makeshift sled by Varric.

The dwarf, laden with a mountain of bear meat and camping supplies, grunts noncommittally. "I don't know why you're complaining," he says as he tugs her in a semicircle to avoid a rather large outcropping of rock. " _I'm_ the one doing all the work here."

Alistair is curled up on Cassandra's chest, his eyes half-closed from sleep. She reaches up to scratch behind his velvety ears. _At least I can still use my arms_ , she thinks, although her mouth remains fixed in a disgruntled frown. "Yes, well, that's why it's so irritating."

"What? You don't want to be indebted to me, Seeker?" Varric casts her a smirk over his shoulder.

Cassandra rolls her eyes and releases a _huff_ of breath. "I dislike being so...helpless."

Varric hums thoughtfully. "You aren't helpless," he says.

"Really."

"Yeah, I mean...I'm pretty sure that in your case, looks actually _can_ kill." He steers her around a fallen tree and plods on.

"Nonsense. You would be dead by now if that were true."

"Ouch." He chuckles. "Fair point." They fall silent for a time, and then he ventures, "Actually, you can still do that creepy set-your-blood-on-fire thing, right? That's something."

"I told you, I only use that when necessary." She lifts an arm to shield her eyes from a particularly sharp ray of morning light.

Varric grunts. "So you _don't_ enjoy torturing people, then?"

"Only you, Varric." She chuckles. "Only you." A cold wind cuts through the trees, ruffling Cassandra's short hair; she pulls her arms across her chest in a vain attempt to keep the chill at bay. Her hands begin to shake. At first, she thinks it is from the chill, but when the tremor spreads and becomes more violent, she knows it is the poison. Cassandra clenches her jaw to keep her head still and bunches her hands so tightly into fists that her palms begin to ache. She closes her eyes as she waits for it to stop. Pain shoots like a bolt of lightning through her bloodstream; it starts at the site of her wound and spreads to her limbs with each heartbeat. She bites into her lower lip.

 _I wish Tyrn were here_. The thought comes fleetingly, like a whisper upon the wind, and she pictures his blue eyes, ever-so-calm and patient. _Maker, keep him safe_.

"Here." The sound of Varric's urgent tone reaches Cassandra's ears, and she realizes suddenly that they've stopped. The dwarf is kneeling beside her with a healing draught in his hand. He pulls the stopper and lifts the flask to her lips. "Drink." A faint spark of worry remains in his light brown eyes as he watches her swallow.

Slowly, the tremor and the pain begin to recede. Cassandra takes in a careful breath after a long moment. "Thank you," she says. Alistair stretches his neck to lick her chin, and a tired smile graces her lips.

Varric nods. "No problem. Should we change your bandage?"

"It's fine for now," Cassandra answers, stroking the wolf cub's back. "I changed it about an hour ago."

"While we were moving?" Varric raises his eyebrows in surprise.

Cassandra blinks. "Yes. Not quite an easy task, of course...the ride isn't exactly smooth." She smirks.

Varric pulls himself to his feet and crosses his arms over his chest as he peers down at her. "Oh, I'm sorry, _Lady Seeker_. Shall I throw you over my shoulder instead? Perhaps that would be more comfortable for her ladyship."

"Arse." She scowls at him in mock annoyance, and the dwarf laughs. He reaches into his pack and pulls out a flask of ale. "Do you need to take a break?" Cassandra asks him.

"Nah," Varric answers. He lifts the flask to his lips and takes a long swig, then wipes his mouth. "We should keep moving." Varric holds the ale toward her in question, but Cassandra shakes her head.

"No, thank you."

Varric shrugs and puts the flask away with a raised eyebrow. Shouldering his pack, he moves to the front of the sled and scoops up the rope once again. "Suit yourself," the dwarf grunts as he begins to pull. He sighs in exasperation. "You guys and your tea," he mutters.

Cassandra turns her head to watch a bird flit among the pines to her right. "What's wrong with tea?" She asks.

Varric huffs. "It's...well, just think: it's basically _leaf water_. That shit is for rabbits and deer." He flings the rope over his shoulder so that he can pull with added leverage.

Cassandra snorts in laughter. "Oh, just because you don't like anything green, Varric…."

"I do, too."

"Really. Give me an example."

Varric tips his head to the side and gazes through the trees as he thinks. "Well, there's, ah, basil. Also rosemary. I eat them with my meat sometimes."

"Spices don't count."

"What? Since when?"

Cassandra laughs. "In any case, you should really try some of our...leaf water...when we get back. Tyrn can make you a cup—somehow he always makes it perfectly." Her voice is somewhat wistful.

Varric hums in thought. "Must be an elf thing."

"Perhaps. Or perhaps it is simply a _Tyrn_ thing."

* * *

Tyrn's knee releases an unsettling _pop_ as he breaches the top step. _I'm getting too old for this shit_ , he thinks as he pauses to rub out the stiffness. It is an old injury from his Inquisition days (truly, bears have _never_ agreed with him); most of the time, it doesn't bother the elf at all, but it acts up on occasion. _At this time of day, I would be enjoying a warm mug of tea with Cassandra_. He sighs wistfully at the imagined taste of earthy spices, the comfort of his chair and a warm fireplace, the quiet joy of glancing over to see Cassandra curled up with a book in her arms, her hair still ruffled and unruly from sleep.

The elf shakes his head to clear it and straightens his back. There is a window to his right; he peers out to find that the morning sky is covered in a thick blanket of clouds. It hasn't started raining yet, but it likely will soon. The river below him appears deep enough for a relatively safe landing. _That may prove useful later, should things go south_.

Turning the other direction, he is faced with another hallway, although this one is much shorter and harbors only one doorway apart from the final set of stairs. He has reached the dining hall; a cacophony of voices and clattering dishes and armored boots against stone floor emanates from the room. There is no way to distinguish exactly how many men are inside, although Tyrn deducts that the room above him is likely the Lord Promiser's chamber; if he is not in the dining hall, that means there are seven men inside, and the leader is upstairs. _Still too many to take head on_ , he thinks. _Time to employ Varric's traps_.

Tyrn begins by placing a myriad of explosive traps directly outside of the door. Further down the hall, he rigs a wire across the floor that will trigger a smoke bomb. On the first few stair steps, he places a selection of simple, makeshift spike traps that should go unnoticed due to the smoke.

Varric left him one last gift: a large vial of some kind of highly-viscous fluid, which Tyrn does not recognize. Thankfully, the dwarf left him a note tied to the bottle: _CAUTION: HIGHLY FLAMMABLE_. _Give 'em hell, Stumpy_!

Tyrn chuckles to himself, thanks the Maker for his dwarven friend, and pours a moderate amount of fluid over the top steps. _That should slow them down_. He smirks and places the remainder of the flammable substance into his pack. Then, carefully, he reaches the door to the top floor and listens for signs of movement inside.

 _Nothing_. Tyrn enters quietly and finds that the chamber is dark, its furniture neglected and covered in dust. The bed sheets are thrown back as though someone left in a hurry. Old scraps of paper are scattered across the ground. On the far side of the room, a ladder leads to a trapdoor on the ceiling. The antidote—if it does, indeed, exist—should be through there.

Tyrn crosses the room swiftly and pulls himself onto the ladder, taking care to ascend quietly. The trapdoor is unlocked; he cracks it open to a burst of cold, rain-scented air. A pair of cloth boots are facing away from him at the tower's edge. The person wearing them appears to be standing before a table. The faint _clink_ of delicate brewing instruments reaches his ears above the sound of falling rain. He climbs the rest of the way up and readies his blades.

The man before him—a mage, surprisingly—is so engrossed in his work that he has apparently failed to notice the intruder. He is clad in a heavy set of dark robes; his hood is pulled up. A gnarled staff leans against the table beside him.

Tyrn is about to step forward when the mage speaks: "So," he says in a high, grating voice, "it would seem that my poison is effective." He turns his head to the side, and Tyrn can just see the tip of a hooked nose. "Why else would you be here?"

Tyrn adjusts his grip on the handle of his blade, ready. "The antidote. Now."

The mage cackles eerily. "Such gall. I can see why they named you the Inquisitor." Slowly, he turns to face the elf. His face appears disturbingly smooth, as though he has never fought a battle in his life. He is either very young, or he is using magic to affect his appearance. Tyrn suspects the latter. Bloodshot, sleepless eyes peer out at the elf from a porcelain-like face. "Tell me: which stage has she reached?" The mage grips his staff and smirks cruelly. "Let's see...by now I would wager that she is paralyzed from the waist down. It may have spread to her upper body as well. How long, I wonder, before you have to feed her through a tube?" Tyrn spins his dagger in his hand, biding his time, determining the best approach. The Lord Promiser continues: "How long before her organs shut down, hmm? Before she can no longer breathe on her own?"

Pain laces through Tyrn's chest at the image incited by those words, but he forces himself to wait. _He wants me to attack_. "You don't actually believe this will end well for you, do you?" Tyrn snarls.

"Why, it already has. Your wife will die, and after her, the rest of those frauds. Then we, the _true_ Seekers, will bring forth the Maker's will. Oh, how I will enjoy watching this world burn."

"Right. You, and your twelve men." Tyrn rolls his eyes; the mage sneers in rage. "Oh, wait…." The elf tips his head up. "Ah, that's right. By the time your men leave the dining hall, I'm afraid you'll be down to single digits." He shrugs. "How unfortunate."

The Lord Promiser shouts in rage and sends a blast of magical flame cascading toward Tyrn's head. The elf dives out of the way, rolling on the rain-covered stone, and brings himself back to his feet. Another ball of fire sears past him, catching his shoulder and burning the collar of his cloak. He tosses his pack and yanks the cloak free, casting it aside.

The mage slams his staff against the ground and this time, a cluster of lightning bolts crack against the stone; Tyrn narrowly avoids it as he dives again. The elf pulls a throwing knife from his belt and sends it slicing through the air toward his opponent. A wall of ice erupts from the ground just in time to block it; two more follow, just as quickly, and the thin wall shatters, causing both men to stumble backward. A shard of ice grazes Tyrn's cheek; blood drips down his jaw.

He leaps forward before the mage can attack again and slams his blades down. Just before they reach his target, however, the mage raises his staff, and the two remain locked for a moment. The mage snarls angrily; his eyes glow with hate and magic, and flame bursts up from the ground around them, sending Tyrn flying back. He scrambles to his feet, panting. The Lord Promiser grins in cold satisfaction.

Tyrn reaches for the last of his knives. He advances as he throws them—one, two, three, four—cutting through a fresh wall of ice, and a fifth lodges in his opponent's shoulder. The mage roars and pulls the weapon from his flesh. Tyrn is close enough to use his blades again; he plunges for another attack. This time, the mage's head snaps up and a wall of ice erupts from the ground; it slices across the back of Tyrn's right arm and hand, causing him to drop his dagger. The Lord Promiser slams his staff against the ground once again, and the elf finds himself locked in a covering of ice, unable to move. He watches, unable to breathe, as the Lord Promiser sneers at him in triumph. Tyrn's eyes skate over to the table behind the mage. He can see the vials of poison, green and sickly. And there, beside them, a single vial of crystal-blue antidote.

 _There it is_ , he thinks, as his lungs begin to burn. In his mind's eye, he pictures Cassandra's face. _So close_ …. _This can't be it. Maker_ ….

Suddenly, a ladder and a flight of stairs below them, a group of cultists finish their breakfast and walk out into the hallway. The explosions that follow are so thunderous that the mage loses his balance and falls backward, releasing Tyrn from his frozen prison. The elf stumbles to his knees and gasps for air as the ground shakes violently. Screams echo from below them; the remnants of the cultists reach the top of the stairs, and Varric's flammable liquid does its job: a final, resounding explosion sends blue fire licking up the ladder and out into the air, where it fizzles out.

Tyrn pulls himself up and lunges with his crafted arm, his last blade. The mage lifts his staff to block the approach. A coating of magical ice forms over the surface of the staff; Tyrn slams his weapon down with all his might, and the crafted dagger shatters—as he suspected. Spinning, he pulls his lockpick from his belt and drives it deep into the Lord Promiser's eye socket. The mage gurgles something incoherent and falls to the ground, dead.

Tyrn scrambles over to the brewing table and grabs the vial of antidote, placing it into a well-insulated pouch on his belt. He picks up his burnt cloak and throws it over his shoulders. The last of Varric's flammable liquid is still in his pack; he pulls it out and trails some across the table and into the vat of poison, until only a small amount is left at the bottom of the vial.

The ladder has been disintegrated, so Tyrn jumps down through the trapdoor (naturally, his knee does not agree with this, so he waits for a moment as the pain and stiffness subside). Blood trails down his shoulder and hand where the mage's ice attack sliced through his skin; the left side of his face is smeared with blood and soot.

He makes his way down the charred stairwell to find the last two Promisers—the archers from the wall outside—standing in the hallway with expressions of rage and horror, surrounded by the remains of their comrades. When they see him—a one-armed elf covered in blood and ash and rain—they must foolishly think him an easy target, for they immediately charge.

Tyrn reaches for the vial of liquid fire; he runs to meet them and dives into a roll, coming up on the other side of the two cultists. They spin around to chase him as he heads for the window at the hallway's end. _To more steps_. _One_. He throws the vial behind him, and the world bursts into flames as he leaps, crashing through the glass and falling down, down, down, into the rain and the river below.

* * *

"Varric," Cassandra fights to keep her eyes open as she speaks. The rain has been falling for some time now, but she can't feel it. "Varric."

The dwarf heaves against the rope; despite his natural strength, he's been pulling since sometime last night, not long after Tyrn left, and he grows more tired by the hour. It is nearly evening, now. "Huh?" He grunts.

Cassandra blinks to clear her lashes of rain drops. "I think it's...getting worse. I can't move my arms." She is so exhausted, all of a sudden.

"Shit." Varric sets the rope down and comes to kneel beside her. "Shit, Seeker." The look of worry in his eyes has become constant, now. "How long?"

She frowns. It's become difficult to focus. "I'm...not sure. An hour, maybe? Two?"

Varric sighs heavily. "Let's check your wound. Here: drink this." He tips another elfroot potion to her lips and watches her swallow. "Good. Now…." He removes her dressing to find with shock that the wound has gotten drastically worse. Purulent drainage seeps from the edges of cracked, deeply inflamed skin. It is unfortunate that while the poison renders her unable to move, it does not silence her pain receptors: her face scrunches into a wince as he attempts to clean it, and her bouts of tremors have become more frequent. "Sorry," he says as he wipes some drainage away.

Cassandra bites her lip as her body shakes. "It's fine." _How fitting that the sky is grey_ , she thinks glumly. _Tyrn loves the rain_. _Why isn't he here_? She blinks several times, struggling to clear the fog from her mind as Varric applies a fresh poultice to her wound. It takes her a moment to remember that her husband left to find an antidote.

Varric catches her distant look, her drooping eyes, and his face creases into a look of concern and frustration. _We need to move faster_. "Hey, Seeker," he says, and her eyes slowly drift over to him. "You're not allowed to fall asleep, do you hear me? You need to...watch for bears and rabid bunnies."

Cassandra snorts weakly. "Alistair will keep an eye out."

"Right. Any idea how close we are?" He asks her. "You know the way better than I do."

"Mmm." She does, in fact, recognize the area, despite that nagging fog in her head. "Another hour, maybe."

"Thank the Maker," Varric mutters. He finishes dressing her wound and and hurriedly takes up the rope again, spurred on by urgency. _I need to get that raven to Nightengale_. _I don't think we have long_ ….

"Varric," Cassandra murmurs, "Tell me a story. It will help me stay awake, I think."

The dwarf pulls hard on the rope and grunts. "What kind of story?"

"The kind with a happy ending."

"Ugh, I hate those." Varric snorts. "They're so boring. And unrealistic."

"Oh, stop."

"Fine." Varric wipes a smattering of raindrops from his brow as he thinks. "Once upon a time, there was this grumpy-ass Seeker named Cassandra and her one-armed, doe-eyed husband, Tyrn. They lived an awful, boring life in the woods, surviving only off of leaf water and stale bread because they were lousy hunters. Thankfully, they had an incredibly talented and handsome dwarf friend named Varric who came to release them from a life of drudgery..."

"Ugh."

* * *

"...and _that_ is how Varric saved both of their asses from a giant demon dragon, and the couple never had to drink leaf water again."

"Please don't put that in a book," Cassandra mumbles.

Varric chuckles. "What? It has potential. And you got your happy ending."

"A happy ending without leaf water is no happy ending at all."

"Ha," Varric grunts in amusement. "Well, we can debate about that later. Here we are."

Cassandra sees with relief that they've made it home. Varric sets the rope down and kneels next to her, gathering a few things as he prepares to carry her inside. She looks up at him. "Varric," she says, "If he doesn't get back before...I need you to tell him—"

"No." The dwarf gives her a stern glare. "He'll make it. And when he does, you can tell him yourself."

She smiles sadly. Just then, as if on cue, there is a rustling in the bushes. Cassandra's heart jumps and she looks up as Tyrn comes bursting through the trees, soaked in blood and rain, a vial of crystal-blue liquid clutched in his remaining hand like a promise kept.


	5. Chapter 5

**Hi everyone. So, here is the last chapter! Thank you to everyone who has taken the time to read/fav/follow/review. I hope you all enjoy this one :) Also, a fair warning: this chapter contains quite a bit of fluff. As always, all rights go to Bioware. Let me know what you think!**

* * *

Tyrn has been running since he left the tower. His lungs ache; he is covered in blood; his right arm and hand are throbbing where the mage's attack sliced deep into his skin. He hasn't slept in over twenty-four hours. The elf doesn't know for sure what he will see when he bursts through that last cluster of pines and into the clearing where his home awaits; possibilities, hopes, and fears have been plaguing his every step.

So when he finally makes it through and his eyes find hers— _Open. Her eyes are open. She's alive, thank the Maker_ —he cannot cross the distance between them fast enough. The rain conceals the shimmer of his tears as he reaches her and kneels, trembling.

"You made it," Cassandra whispers; her voice is weak, her face frighteningly pale, but she's here, alive, and safe for the time being.

Tyrn hands the antidote to Varric and rests a palm briefly against his wife's cheek. "I made you a promise, didn't I?" She smiles faintly at his touch and closes her eyes. "Let's get you inside. Varric," he turns his head to look up at his friend, "can you help me with the door?"

"Sure thing, Stumpy." The dwarf stoops down to pluck Alistair from where he is curled up beside Cassandra and opens the door of the home, swinging it wide and holding it there with the toe of his boot.

Tyrn leans closer to slip his arm under Cassandra's head and around her shoulders. It is a bit awkward to lift her at first, having only half of his left arm, but he pulls her close to his chest to keep her balanced and secure. She gazes up into his face as he stands; a fresh bout of tremors passes through her body, and she bites her lip against the pain that accompanies them.

"Tyrn…."

"It's alright," he says, pulling her closer still as he crosses their living area. "I've got you." He leans to briefly touch his forehead to hers. "I've got you." Turning the corner, he carries her down the hallway and into their bedroom. "There are extra blankets in the room across the hall," he says to Varric, who is following close behind.

"Got it." The dwarf disappears briefly before returning with a stack of neatly folded blankets; Alistair trails clumsily after him, leaving tiny wet pawprints across the wooden floor. Varric throws the current covers back to keep them from getting soaked, and Tyrn carefully sets his wife down on the bed. The tremors have temporarily subsided.

Taking the antidote from the outstretched hand of his friend, Tyrn removes the stopper and helps Cassandra tip her head up. "Here," he says, gently bringing the flask to her lips. Cassandra swallows slowly, her eyes closed, until the blue liquid is gone, and Tyrn places the empty vial on the bedside table to his left.

Varric sets the extra blankets at the foot of the bed and shifts in his rain-soaked jacket. "I'll send a raven to Nightengale," he offers, eager to do something, anything. "We might still need her help."

"Thank you," Tyrn says. He turns to face him. "We keep our two ravens outside, on the south end of the house. You'll find parchment for messages in a small cabinet beside their cage." Varric nods and quickly leaves the room.

Tyrn turns back to his wife. Cassandra's eyes are still closed; her breathing is slow and even. "Cass?" He whispers.

Her eyelids flutter open; slowly, she looks over at him. "Mmm?"

"I need to get you out of these clothes and into something dry."

"Alright," Cassandra murmurs sleepily. She blinks several times as if to clear her head. "Varric said my wound has gotten worse," she says. Dark, heavy bags beneath her eyes convey her exhaustion.

Tyrn presses his lips together in a worried frown. Gently, he removes her soaked clothing and uses a clean rag to pat her skin dry. A fresh pair of trousers and a silk shirt are resting atop her dresser; he retrieves them and carefully pulls them on for her, covering her dreadfully pale skin. Then he examines her wound, confirming that it is, in fact, much worse than the last time he saw it. Worry clutches at his chest; he tries not to let it show, but Cassandra recognizes it instantly.

"That bad?" She sighs.

"Mmm. I've seen worse," he tips his head up and gives her a lopsided grin that doesn't quite reach his eyes.

"Uh-huh."

Tyrn blinks and prepares a fresh dressing for her. "Well, now that you've taken the antidote, I'm sure it will get better." He spreads some crushed elfroot over the wound's surface; Cassandra sucks in a pained breath. His eyes are sad as they flick up to hers. "Sorry. I'm almost done."

She nods carefully as she waits for the pain to subside. When Tyrn finishes with the elfroot, he covers the wound with clean bandages, wrapping them carefully around her abdomen, and pulls the blankets up to her shoulders.

"Are you warm enough?" He asks.

Cassandra releases a quiet, grateful breath. "Yes," she says. "Thank you." Tyrn sits at the edge of the bed and rests his hand over hers; for a time, they sit in silence.

Cassandra blinks up at him. "You should clean that cut on your cheek," she quietly says. "And I see your good arm has been bleeding."

"Mmm."

"How bad?"

"Not bad. I'll clean them—don't worry."

"Tyrn."

His blue eyes meet hers. "They can wait."

Cassandra sighs; it is a soft, whispered thing, not unlike a spring breeze. "And people say _I'm_ stubborn." Her tired eyes blink slowly at him. She wishes she could squeeze his hand. She wishes his eyes were not so sad. "It will be alright, love," she says. "Whatever happens."

Tyrn shifts so that he can face her more comfortably. His hand tightens over hers, anchoring him. "I know." He leans down and presses a kiss to her forehead. "You should get some rest," he says, his breath lightly stirring a few of her short hairs. "I'll be right here."

She's not sure where the tear comes from, exactly, but it trails slowly down her temple and falls, a minute _tap_ , against her pillow. The fear that has gripped her since losing the function of her legs remains—that awful, unwelcome helplessness. Still, it is dulled by Tyrn's presence, and his hand in hers keeps her anchored, as well. She does not want him to let go—and she knows he won't; not ever. The image of his winter blue eyes remains imprinted in her mind as she finally allows herself to drift longingly into a deep slumber.

* * *

Tyrn remains beside Cassandra, listening to each slow breath as it is drawn, a graceful whisper, into her lungs. After what seems like quite some time—he does not know how long, exactly; it is as though he is suspended in some strange, nebulous state, shut away from the rest of the world—he makes good on his promise to Cassandra by changing into some dry clothes and hastily cleaning his open wounds. He unstraps the remnants of his shattered blade arm and sets it on his dresser. The lacerations on the back of his right hand and arm have stopped bleeding, but they could really use some elfroot to help the healing process. Without his left hand, however, the simple task sounds like more trouble than it's worth. Instead, he gives a disgruntled sigh and scoots his chair a bit closer to Cassandra's side before sitting down again.

Cassandra's forehead is beaded with sweat. Tyrn grabs a cloth from the foot of the bed and gently wipes the perspiration away, studying her face. A slight amount of color has returned to her cheeks; whether that is due to the antidote or the fact that she's out of the rain and cold weather, however, Tyrn is not sure. He sets the cloth back down. When he looks back to her face, he sees that it is scrunched into an expression of pain, although her eyes remain closed. A fresh tremor courses through her limbs. Tyrn exhales and grasps for her hand as it shakes. He squeezes firmly, leans forward in some feeble attempt to stop the pain by the sheer magnitude of proximity, clenches his jaw as he watches her, helpless. Tyrn moves his hand from hers and reaches for her cheek, instead. Her eyes still haven't opened. Can she hear him?

"It's alright," he whispers, brushing his thumb across the scar that runs above her left jawline. "It's alright, Cass. Hold on. I'm still here." He closes his eyes with hers. "I'm still here." Tyrn reaches for her hand again and holds tightly until the tremor subsides and Cassandra's features slowly relax. Releasing a brittle sigh, he rests his forehead against her knuckles until they leave a faint imprint in his skin. "Maker," he breathes into the sheets, but he's not sure how to finish, exactly, so he leaves the plea as incomplete as it is desperate.

* * *

Some hours later (that is, he _assumes_ it has been hours, for the grey light of day has faded, and a blanketed night sky has replaced it), there is a hesitant knock on the bedroom door.

"Come in," Tyrn calls sleepily. There is the _creak_ of metal hinges and the _thump-thud_ of Varric's boots against the wooden floor as he enters.

The dwarf clears his throat. "Hey, Stumpy," he murmurs. "I brought you some leaf wa—ah, I mean, tea."

Tyrn shifts in surprise and turns to see his friend standing in a dry set of clothes, a steaming mug of tea in one hand and what appears to be a pint of ale in the other. The elf gives him a tired smile. "Thank you, Varric." He pushes himself up from his chair, ignoring the distinct _pop_ in his knee, and gratefully takes the mug from his friend's outstretched hand. He raises an eyebrow at him. "No tea for you?"

"Nah," the dwarf smirks. "I helped myself to your ale, though. Hope you don't mind."

"Of course not." Tyrn brings the drink closer to his face, savoring the warmth of the mug against his palm. He takes a sip and immediately struggles to conceal a snort of surprise as the tea—piping hot and very, _very_ strong—strikes his tastebuds like a kick in the gut. He wipes his mouth to stifle a cough.

"Shit." Varric frowns. "It's terrible, isn't it?"

"Ah," Tyrn swallows, catching the gleam of a hefty wad of tea leaves at the bottom of his mug, "No! No, it's great. Really." He clears his throat and shoots Varric a failed attempt at a reassuring grin.

The dwarf grunts. "Knew I should've brought you some ale instead," he muses.

Tyrn blinks. "It's the thought that counts."

"Right, well, a pint would have counted for more, I think." Varric quips, and they chuckle. Then he peers around the elf to where Cassandra lies sleeping. "Any change?"

Tyrn gazes into his unsavory beverage. "The tremors don't seem to be quite as frequent," he says. "Other than that…."

Varric hums in thought. "Well, it's something, at least. Hopefully Leliana will be on her way soon." He takes a careful sip of his ale, regarding Tyrn with a concerned expression. "You doing okay?" He asks.

The elf runs a thumb along the edge of his mug. He frowns heavily; Varric will not accept a lie, he knows, but for some reason he can't bring himself to admit it out loud. It is a simple word, really. Just one syllable—meant to roll off the tongue, direct and honest.

 _No_.

But he can't say it. It feels unfair, somehow, to admit it. Unfair to admit his pain when Cassandra is in the state she is, fighting for her life. So he just stands there, unmoving and unsure of what to say, until Varric sets down his pint and pulls him into a hug—strong but brief.

When they step away, Varric clasps his shoulder for a moment. "It'll be alright, Stumpy," he says, echoing Tyrn's words to Cassandra. "You'll see." He offers him an encouraging grin before picking up his ale and taking another swig.

Tyrn smiles faintly. "Thank you, my friend," he says. "And...thank you for watching over her while I was gone. For bringing her back here." He swirls the tea in his mug.

"Ah, hell," Varric grunts. "It's the least I could do—haul her grumpy ass home before the two of you managed to get yourselves into even _more_ trouble." A laugh rumbles in his broad chest. "Honestly, Stumpy, you guys are just magnets for insane cultists and whatnot." Varric tips his chin up, a faint smirk playing on his lips. "It must be your... _giddiness_. All that lovey-dovey shit you guys do."

Tyrn snorts and raises an amused eyebrow at the dwarf. "Laugh it up, Chest Hair."

Varric chuckles heartily before taking a long draught of ale. Glancing around the room, he spies the remnants of Tyrn's blade arm atop his dresser, shattered and cast aside for the time being. The dwarf shoots his friend a quizzical look. "So," he says, "I assume you've got quite the story to tell me."

The elf turns his mouth up in a lopsided grin. "That I do. But first," he gazes down at his tea with a faint hum, "I think I'll pour myself some ale."

* * *

"A _lockpick_? That is some grisly shit, my friend." Varric laughs as he wipes the foam from his upper lip. "And I'm glad to hear that liquid fire came in handy."

Tyrn sets the remnants of his ale on the dresser beside him, chuckling. "Indeed. Where did you find that stuff, anyway?"

"Would you believe me if I said it was in the same barrel I found Bianca?"

The elf snorts. "The one labeled 'swag'? Hell, no." He smirks. Alistair is snuggled comfortably in his lap; Tyrn strokes the cub's back as he sleeps.

Varric tips his head up and gazes placidly at the ceiling for a moment, studying the patterns created by the wood. "Guess you'll need a new blade, huh?" The dwarf blinks. If he stares closely enough, he can almost see a wolf up there, woven into the grain.

"I guess so." Tyrn rubs behind Alistair's ears. "Although I hope I won't be needing it anytime soon," he adds.

Varric releases a _huff_ of breath as he looks back to his friend, eyebrows slightly raised. "You and me both," he says. "I would hate to have to save your asses again...I'm sure you two are embarrassed enough as it is."

Tyrn snorts in amusement and pulls himself to his feet; he gently deposits Alistair in Varric's lap. Striding over to the bed, he rests the back of his hand against Cassandra's forehead and finds that it is still warm, although she doesn't seem to be quite as feverish as earlier. The elf wipes a few droplets of sweat from her brow and sighs.

Varric's chair creaks as he adjusts his position, slightly jostling Alistair in the process. The cub yawns, blowing a tiny gust of puppy breath into the air, and licks at the fabric of Varric's shirt. The dwarf hums pensively as he watches the couple across the room. Tyrn's lean shoulders are pulled slightly forward, his head bowed as he gazes intensely into his wife's face, searching. The wedding ring he keeps on his right hand glints against the warm light of the lantern beside him.

After a moment, without turning around, Tyrn whispers: "Do you remember the graveyard? In the Fade?"

Varric scowls and looks down at his boots. "Unfortunately."

Tyrn blinks. Cassandra appears to be sleeping peacefully for now; her brow is relaxed, her breathing slow and even. In his mind's eye, he recalls the eerie scene: a smattering of headstones cast against the backdrop of the Fade's unnatural terrain, each one engraved with a name.

 _Cassandra, Varric, Solas, Dorian, Iron Bull, Sera, Blackwall, Vivienne, Cole_. A headstone for each of them, and below their names, a greatest fear, carved precisely in scrawling, delicate script. So tidy. Mocking. Cruel in its blatant honesty.

There was a grave for all of them. All, that is, except for Tyrn.

At the time, he had wondered why there was no grave for him, no marker to display his downfall, his secret (or not-so-secret) fear. He brought it up with Cassandra later that week. They were sitting at the top floor of the smithy, noses buried in their respective books, enjoying each other's quiet company and the warm light cast by Cassandra's lantern. They loved that place. In Tyrn's mind, it came to be _their_ place, a hideaway from the rest of the world where some of their earliest and most treasured moments were kept and sealed between them.

* * *

" _Perhaps it's because you don't_ have _a greatest fear." Cassandra answered Tyrn's question simply, one chiseled eyebrow raised in half-amused sentiment. Her eyes flickered briefly before she returned to the latest chapter of_ Swords and Shields _._

 _Tyrn peered over the top of his copy of_ A Tale of the Frostbacks _and snorted. "Right," he mumbled. "Or maybe it's because the fear demon was too afraid to call me out like that. I_ am _the Inquisitor, after all."_

 _Then it was Cassandra's turn to snort. She rolled her eyes heavily and tossed a nearby hunk of bread in her lover's direction—none-too-gently, of course. Tyrn released a chortle of laughter as he narrowly caught the projectile (ah, to have both hands again) and tore a portion off for himself. He rested his book upon his lap as he chewed thoughtfully, watching her._

 _After a moment, she paused in her reading and looked up at him again, a graceful curiosity lighting across her features. "What do you think it would have said?" She asked._

 _Tyrn tipped his head to the side as he considered. In truth, he didn't know—not fully, although he had an idea. A faint gust of warmth spread to the tips of his pointed ears; he decided that he shouldn't tell her his suspicions. Not yet. He didn't want her to worry. He swallowed his mouthful of bread. "Losing the war, maybe."_

" _Mmm." Cassandra hummed in consideration, regarding him. "Sounds reasonable enough," she conceded. Tyrn shifted awkwardly against the wall, trying and failing to stretch out a sore muscle in one of his shoulders. She continued watching him for a moment._

She doesn't believe me, _he thought._

 _Cassandra caught the bread when he tossed it back to her and pulled off a small bite for herself. "I'm not so sure, though," she continued, confirming his suspicion. "Most of our fears were...I don't know. Apart from circumstance? We are all afraid of losing this war, to some degree, but the fears on those headstones transcended the current crisis."_

" _You're right." Tyrn ducked his head in a rare, almost shy gesture. "I have other fears, of course—some, and one in particular, that would likely be written on my headstone if I had had one."_

" _Oh?" She quirked her mouth up in a small, careful smile._

 _The elf's winter blue eyes danced in the lantern's glow, the red in his cheeks growing steadily darker. "Uh, well—"_

 _Just then, Iron Bull came thundering up the stairs, waving a pint of Qunari drink in each hand. "Boss!" He shouted as he reached the top steps. "Boss, I heard you killed another dragon yesterday! Time to cele—" The horned mercenary stopped short, apparently realizing he had just intruded upon some much-needed personal time. "Oh, uh, my bad."_

 _Cassandra's expression fell in a mixture of irritation and disappointment, but it faded almost as quickly as it had appeared. She pulled her lips into one of her rare, soft smiles. "Go on," she said to Tyrn, who had_ not _been able to hide his disappointment so easily. "We'll speak again soon."_

" _What?" Iron Bull snorted. "Hell no, Cassandra. You are_ not _missing out on this party! I was told you struck the killing blow." He smirked down at her, awaiting her reply. Tyrn stifled a laugh as he brought himself to his feet._

 _Sighing, Cassandra stood as well. "If you're hoping for a good story, I'm afraid you'll be disappointed. It really wasn't all that exciting."_

 _Bull scoffed. "Any story with a dragon in it is exciting."_

" _He's right," Tyrn said, throwing Cassandra an amused look. "And anyway, you're just being humble. You should have seen it, Bull, the way she climbed right up the beast's neck and drove her sword through." They began their descent down the stairs. "We should invite Varric—he was there, and I'm sure he'll be able to tell it best."_

" _Already did. We'll drink to you tonight, Seeker! And," Bull raised an eyebrow at the two lovers before throwing back a drink, "I'll bet you two are gonna have one hell of an afterparty. Damn shame I'm not invited."_

 _Tyrn's face grew hot as a deep blush painted his skin "Oh, ah, we—"_

" _It's not—" Cassandra's cheeks were just as red as Tyrns; she swallowed awkwardly. "We aren't…."_

" _Uh-huh." Iron Bull chuckled as they left the smithy and struck out across the grass, heading toward the tavern._

* * *

Tyrn pulls himself away from the fond memory and back to the present. He wonders if he was right about what his fear might have been, all those years ago. He never did tell Cassandra. His gaze rests on her sleeping form beside him. As he watches her, listening and measuring each of her breaths as she fights for life, he suddenly knows. He was right about his fear.

He knows because it hasn't changed.

Varric has been waiting patiently for him to continue; the elf shifts and leans against the bedside table. This way, he is still close to his wife, but he can face the dwarf while they speak. He tugs lightly on the sleeve of his silk shirt until it covers the residual stump of his arm. "Cassandra's headstone…." Tyrn blinks. "Her fear was 'helplessness'."

"Yeah." Varric grunts darkly as he fiddles with Alistair's ears. "Shit," he runs a hand through his sandy-blonde hair. "This must be hell for her."

Tyrn looks down at his wife, reaches out to squeeze her hand. "Pretty much," he says lamely, a frown pulling tightly at his lips. "But…." the elf's blue gaze raises back to Varric. "That's why she'll beat this." Varric raises a questioning eyebrow, urging him to continue. "Cassandra will rise to this challenge, as she's risen to every challenge before it. She's a warrior—determined, stubborn, fierce...she'll fight this. She _is_ fighting it. And she'll win, somehow." His winter-blue eyes—crisp, sad, yet harboring a faith that is as subtle as it is unquenchable—drift down to his love, and he knows it's true. She'll win. She has to.

"Well, damn if that isn't one of your best speeches yet," Varric hums, his gaze earnest and bright. "Maybe even better than that one before we fought our first dragon...what was it you said? 'Well, shit—let's not be this thing's breakfast'?" The dwarf laughs softly, his chest rumbling with the pleasant sound of humor. "I've never been so inspired in my life."

"Heh," Tyrn chuckles at the memory, the echo of dragon fire ringing in his ears. "Well, it worked, didn't it? We weren't eaten."

Varric smiles and tosses back the last of his ale. "True. _And_ we found that set of Griffon mail in its belly—in near mint condition, no less!" He chortles. "After we polished off the stomach juices, I mean. And the remains of, like, five sheep." The dwarf sighs heartily and leans his head back to stretch the muscles in his neck. "Honestly, though," he says, staring up at the ceiling, "you're right: Cassandra will get through this. You guys always do." He blinks and straightens again so that he can look his friend in the face. "You always will."

Tyrn presses his lips into a tentative smile, ever grateful for Varric's steadfast friendship. He wonders, briefly, where he and Cassandra might be without the snarky dwarf's influence in their lives. He probably doesn't want to know.

"Well," Varric punctuates the elf's thoughts with a decisive belch. "I should probably get some shut eye." He peers at Tyrn with a skeptical glint in his eyes. "I would offer to watch her for a while, but somehow I just know you'll refuse."

"You're right, I'm afraid." Tyrn picks at a loose thread in his shirt. "But thank you for the hypothetical offer."

"You're welcome, hypothetically." He stands slowly in an attempt to keep Alistair from waking. "Come get me if you need anything at all, alright? You need sleep, too, Stumpy. Won't be much good to her if you're walking around here like a corpse." the dwarf adds.

Tyrn dips his head in assent. "Thanks, Varric. I will." He hands his friend an extra blanket and a pillow. "There's a bedroom across the hall. Here—take these, just in case."

Varric nods thankfully as he takes them, cradling Alistair in his other arm, and saunters out of the room with a tired sigh. The bedroom door clicks closed, and Tyrn is left with the night and quiet and a long, expectant wait. He pulls his chair closer to the bed and plops down to resume his watch.

* * *

It is another two days before Leliana arrives—two days of watching and waiting and redressing Cassandra's wound as she sleeps, of monitoring her temperature and holding her hand when the tremors come, of falling asleep on occasion because exhaustion leaves him no other option, of waking to see that Varric has been keeping watch while he was out.

So when there is a delicate knock on the front door, it takes Tyrn a moment to recall who it might be. Relief floods through him; hope that, perhaps, Leliana will have some good news, some breakthrough or treatment to help Cassandra pull through.

Varric is the one who answers the door. He cracks it open at first—one can never be too careful—before pulling it the rest of the way and welcoming her in. "Nightengale!" he greets her happily, giving a low flourish of a bow. Tyrn comes around the corner to see her enter.

Leliana steps over the threshold and into the home with a gait of delicate grace that is equal parts practiced and natural. Her footfalls are silent, the slight _swish_ of her cloth hood against her leather tunic so minute that it could be mistaken for a spring breeze. A few wisps of bright red hair frame her soft cheekbones, rose petal lips, and pale blue eyes that are somehow gentle and steely at the same time. When she comes to a halt in the den area, she stands with an air that is reminiscent of a bird or a wisp of smoke. It is as though she is prepared to take flight—true to her nickname—at any moment.

"Aw, you didn't wear your hat," Varric pouts. "I had this great joke waiting for you. It was about doorframes, and...well...anyway, it's good to see you."

Leliana smiles down at her dwarven friend. "It's good to see you too, Varric," she says, her voice a lilting mixture of an Orlesian accent and a bard's sing-songy cadence. She looks to Tyrn, who dips his head.

"We've missed you," he says. "I hope this won't cause too much trouble with the Clerics?"

Leliana purses her lips just slightly. "The Clerics can bicker amongst themselves for a time." She sighs as her light blue eyes drift up to the ceiling and back down again. "How lovely it is to be out of those robes, for once. They're awfully stuffy. Oh, and the _shoes_ they've had me wear! Dreadful, I tell you." She blinks several times. "But we have more pressing concerns." Leliana leans slightly forward on her toes, fixing her lucid gaze on Tyrn. "How is she? May I see her?"

"Of course." He begins to lead the way down the hall. "She's been asleep for the last two days. We got her the antidote, but...well...there hasn't been much change, apart from the fact that her wound seems to be improving again." The elf spares a glance over his shoulder at the former bard. "No guards?" He asks her. "Isn't it dangerous for you to be traveling alone?"

"Don't be silly, Tyrn." Leliana chortles behind him, a breeze of cherry blossom perfume and finely-woven silk. "Just because I'm Divine now doesn't mean I have suddenly become helpless."

Behind her, Varric rubs at the stubble on his chin. "Uh-huh. Isn't it...a _sin_ , or something, for them to let you out of their sight?"

Leliana snorts—a dainty, almost fragile sound, coming from her. "Oh, please." She trails a gloved finger along the wall for a breadth of a second. "But if you must know," the Divine adds sheepishly, "I have six of my best agents posted around the property." Tyrn chuckles as he leads her to the end of the hallway and into the master bedroom, unable to stifle his amusement.

Varric huffs. "Well," he drawls, "I'm not sure if that should comfort me or creep me out."

"Both, perhaps?" Leliana smirks, but then she sees where Cassandra lies asleep on the bed, and the playful glint in her eye grows dim. She sweeps across the floor until she is standing above her; Tyrn and Varric hang back for a moment, observing. Leliana removes a glove and rests her hand against Cassandra's forehead. "Slight fever," the Divine murmurs. "How frequent are the tremors?" Her blue eyes skate back to Tyrn.

"About three hours, give or take." He comes to stand beside her.

Varric leans against the doorframe, watching, a worried crease running above his brow. "Were you able to find anything?" He asks. "Talk to anyone with special knowledge on poisons?"

Leliana braces one arm across her middle, allowing it to serve as a rest for her other elbow. She taps a finger against her lips as she thinks. "I did, yes. We have a few mages in the Chantry who studied poisons and antidotes before the Crisis."

"And?"

The Divine gives Tyrn a careful look that is laden with something akin to regret. "The consensus was that it would be too risky to give Cassandra another type of antidote. Because we know so little about this poison, it's possible that anything we give her could react with what's already in her bloodstream."

"I see." Tyrn deftly seals his growing disappointment and fear away in a tightly-bound section at the back of his chest, where it will remain for the moment, unopened. "So, it's a waiting game, then."

Leliana reaches out to brush a hand along his shoulder, feather-light and fleeting. "I'm sorry," she says. "I almost didn't come, knowing that I have no tangible way to help. But I wanted to see her, in case…."

"I know." Tyrn lifts his head. "It's good you came. It will mean a lot to Cassandra when she wakes up," he says, deflecting the path of Leliana's thoughts, lest he be swept up in the dark future they carry. The elf gives her a tentative, thin-lipped smile.

Just then, Alistair comes barreling into the room, one of Varric's gloves gripped tightly in his teeth. He skids to a halt in front of the dwarf and promptly hunkers down as he begins to chew.

"Hey!" Varric shouts as he leans forward to snatch the glove away. Before he can, however, the little cub pulls himself back to his paws and spins out of the room, his tiny feet skidding across the wooden floor. Varric follows after him. "Come here, you little shit!"

Leliana laughs, a flowering, delicate sound that lilts through the air. "You didn't tell me you two had a pet," she says, glancing at Tyrn. "And a wolf cub, no less."

He chuckles as he listens to the raucous down the hall (luckily for Varric, Alistair is so small that he doesn't make it far before the dwarf catches him). "We just brought him home. By the way, we might need some tips on housetraining and such. Since you're the expert with nugs…."

"Oh, why didn't you say so sooner? I would love to help! It might be a little different, considering the fact that he's not a domesticated breed, but we'll see what we can do." She blinks. "What is his name?"

Tyrn shifts and tugs at the sleeve of his shirt. "Alistair."

"Oh," Leliana's eyes flash with sharp, glinting sadness, but the emotion is tucked away almost as quickly as it appears. "He would appreciate that, I think. During the Fifth Blight, we traveled with a Mabari hound. Alistair took a liking to him—he was a dog person, I think."

"Mmm. It fits him," Tyrn says. He looks down at his boots for a moment. "Speaking of the Blight...how is your Warden?"

At the mention of her love, the Divine's eyes brighten considerably, her countenance instantly lifted. "He's quite well, thank you. I miss him terribly when he's away on Warden business, of course, but the Maker has been kind. We've been able to spend a lot of time together lately." Her smile widens further. "And he's really great with the nugs. He's been instrumental in helping with new litters over the years...I _do_ now how to pick them, apparently."

Tyrn chuckles softly. After a moment, he looks over at her. "It's nice to see you so happy, Leliana," he says. "You've certainly earned a respite."

Her rose petal lips quirk upward. "Thank you. I truly am happy." She blinks. "There was a time when I wasn't so sure I ever would be." The words skate out, pensive and hesitant, as though she didn't quite mean to say them aloud. But then she looks up at her elven friend. "Do you remember the day we brought you out of the dungeon at Haven, when you met the two of us?" She gestures briefly to his slumbering wife.

He releases a huff of breath. "How could I forget?" Tyrn's chest rumbles with an amused hum as he recalls that day, so long ago, when the sky was torn open and his world ended so that it might begin anew. "I half-expected Cassandra to kill me."

"So did I," she chortles. "But she didn't. And now look at you two," Leliana raises an eyebrow before smiling gently down at Cassandra.

Tyrn brushes a strand of hair from his wife's forehead, his eyes warm in spite of their winter hue. He wouldn't trade anything for that fateful day. Not a single thing. "The Maker is kind, indeed," he whispers. And as he says so, he prays it remains true.

* * *

 _She dreams of winter. Snow falls and mutes the world around her as it blankets the ground, covering autumn's leaves—the tears of harvest—until the world is shrouded in white. It's pristine, this silent covering, cold and crisp and lovely all at once. She is hesitant to step forward for fear of marring the landscape with her unwelcome bootprints. Still, there is something ahead._ Someone _ahead. She knows this person, somehow—she is sure of it, even though she cannot see the figure clearly. She must go._

 _Snow reaches the top of her boots when she steps forward. Slowly, achingly, she trudges along. Ahead, behind the awaiting figure, there is a forest of pines. It seems vaguely familiar. Perhaps she can take shelter there...build a fire to keep the cold at bay—although she realizes that the cold isn't particularly bothering her right now. How strange._

 _The falling snow continues its cascade. The flakes seem to be growing thicker, the space between each one more narrow. Faster and faster it falls, until she can hardly see anything anymore. Gone is the forest. Gone is the figure. Yet she knows he is still there—he? Yes, she's certain it's a man, now._

 _The blanket of snow reaches steadily higher; she must push through the drifts that come up to her thighs. Before long she is on her hands and knees, crawling, grasping, climbing. It threatens to bury her entirely._

 _And yet...would that be so bad? The cold doesn't seem to harm her. Indeed, it would be easy to simply lie down beneath that great pristine blanket and let the world fall away._

 _But no, she must continue. There is some fierce, determined part of her, stubborn and certain, that refuses to allow her to stop. Not yet. She hasn't reached him yet._

 _And so she clambers on, up and through the snow that blinds her. Surely she must be close. Any moment now….she can barely move. It takes all of her strength to push through; soon, the snow will be above her head, and she will have no choice but to stop. She reaches an arm through the piling white and prays for the man, the one she now remembers._ Reach me _, she prays. That one last, fragile distance between them must be closed by him, and him alone._ Reach me.

 _He does._

* * *

Cassandra opens her eyes to a dark room, save the faint glow of a lantern at her bedside. Its soft flicker illuminates the slumped form of her husband, who is sleeping in a chair with his head resting near her arm on the bed, his fingers still closed around hers as he slowly breathes in and out. A small smile graces her lips. Her first instinct is to say his name, to speak to him, but he looks so peaceful there (in spite of his slightly awkward sleeping position) that she is loathe to wake him. No doubt he's hardly slept since this whole ordeal started. Cassandra watches as the reflection of the lantern's flame dances along the surface of Tyrn's wedding ring. He twitches in his sleep, his grip tightening briefly, and it is then that she realizes: she _felt_ his fingers tighten around hers. Holding her breath, Cassandra lifts the digits of her other hand. It feels as though they are weighed down by some infernal stone. Still, with great effort, they shakily rise from the bed. She exhales and closes her eyes for a moment. _Thank the Maker_. She does the same with her toes, and after a moment they, too, move slightly. It's a start.

Caught up in her relief, Cassandra allows another small, relieved sigh to escape her lips. The quiet sound rouses Tyrn from his sleep. He lifts his head, blinking his dream away, and their eyes meet for a long moment. Then, slowly, a smile spreads across his face, and in a rush of joy he moves onto the bed and pulls her up into a tight hug, cradling her head against his shoulder. Cassandra breathes in his scent: _pine and autumn air and tanned leather_. She is only able to lift her arms slightly—and at great effort—but it is enough. Her fingers tremble as they splay across the curve of his back.

Tyrn's breath is warm on her neck; he showers her with kisses, little expressions of joy and relief written across her cheek, her temple, her scalp. "Hi," he simply says, the word laden with weight beyond measure.

"Hi." She looks at him, and they laugh quietly for a moment. She allows her arms to fall back to her side, unable to hold them up for much longer than the span of a few breaths. Tyrn gently eases her back down onto the bed.

He presses his forehead to hers, his eyes closed, and then he moves to return to his chair. "Sorry," he croaks, gesturing to her bandaged abdomen. "Your wound—"

"No, it's fine." Her voice is ragged from lack of use. She lifts her finger slightly as he rises, just barely managing to brush against his forearm. "Wait…."

Tyrn's winter blue eyes rest on her, warm and alight, and he chuckles. He climbs back up onto the bed with her and stretches out on his back. His remaining hand finds hers and they lace their fingers together, gazing up at the ceiling.

"I see you still can't get enough of me," Tyrn smirks as he glances over at her.

Cassandra snorts weakly. "Never," she says, returning his expression. "Unless you continue to burn the bread every time it's your night to cook, that is."

"Nonsense. I've only done that…." He pauses to count on his fingers. Having only five, however, he quickly runs out. "Ah. I suppose you're right. I would blame it on the fact that I'm missing an arm, but something tells me you won't accept it."

"Certainly not." She raises an eyebrow at him. "Especially since you had that problem _before_ you lost the arm, as I recall."

"Damn. You got me." Tyrn smiles and shifts so that he can look at her properly, studying her features in the lantern's glow. "How are you feeling?" He asks.

She blinks slowly. "Better. The pain isn't nearly as bad, and I'm able to move in small increments." Her warm brown eyes flicker as she regards him. "How long was I asleep?"

Tyrn runs a thumb along the palm of her hand, tracing the lines that are written across her skin. "Four days."

" _Four days_?" Her eyes widen suddenly, her lips parted in shock. "Maker's breath."

"My thoughts exactly," Tyrn murmurs. "Although it could have been worse, especially since we know so little about the poison."

Cassandra presses her lips together again, shifting her head in a slight nod against the surface of the pillow. "I suppose you're right."

"Aren't I always?"

"Stop it."

Her husband chuckles softly in the darkness. She relishes the feel of his hand in hers as she watches him contentedly, and a comfortable silence passes between them. Outside, a gentle wind whispers through the night sky, rustling the pines and brushing against their window. Tyrn readjusts his pillow and stares up at the ceiling for a while.

Before she knows it, Cassandra's eyelids begin to droop once again. She huffs a sigh. "Apparently, four days wasn't quite enough," she mumbles. She feels the bed creak as Tyrn leans closer, his hand still clasped in hers, and he smiles softly at her. The jagged line of the laceration on his left cheek is illuminated just before he presses his forehead to hers.

"It's alright," he whispers. "Rest."

Cassandra closes her eyes. "You'll be here when I wake?" She asks, knowing full well what his answer will be. A flutter of warmth brushes across her face as her husband presses a kiss to her forehead.

"Always."

* * *

—One Week Later—

* * *

"You good?"

"I'm good." Cassandra hobbles slowly down the hallway, leaning heavily upon Tyrn's arm as she goes. A trickle of sweat runs down the back of her neck. Even after several more days of rest, her limbs are stubborn and weak. She trembles as she walks, each step a declaration of effort, a monument to her determination.

Tyrn watches her closely as they go. That steady, winter blue gaze of his traces the lines on her face, the beads of sweat prickling her forehead, the way her brow drops low in concentration with each new step. "Almost there," he says as they breach the entrance to the den and the kitchen area. Cassandra can't help the small grin tugging at her lips. Her Tyrn—ever so gentle.

Several steps later (and several more tremors, although by now the pain is absent from them), the couple reaches the kitchen table. Tyrn pulls a chair back for his wife and carefully supports her as she lowers herself down with a breathy sigh. His hand lingers on her arm for a moment, fleeting and earnest, until she gives him a reassuring nod. He disappears into the kitchen to prepare some tea.

Varric is sitting at the other end of the table, shuffling a deck of Wicked Grace cards. "Well, it's about time." He smirks at the Seeker before dealing for the three of them. "Ready for a good, old fashioned ass kicking?"

Cassandra snorts and wipes a few droplets of sweat from her brow. "As I recall, _I_ won the last game."

"Yeah, well, that was probably just a stroke of luck. Besides," the dwarf adds, "Tyrn and I have been brushing up on our skills while you've been getting your beauty rest."

"I suppose that means it will be all the more embarrassing for you when I win."

"Ha!" Varric throws his head back in a jovial snort. "I'm glad that poison didn't mess with your sense of humor, Seeker."

Cassandra chuckles. "Me too, Varric. Me too."

* * *

"It's too bad Leliana couldn't stay longer," Tyrn remarks as he lays a card on the table with a _tap_. "She always misses out on Wicked Grace."

Varric raises an eyebrow at his friend's choice of play, then slides his own card onto the wooden surface. "I know. Those Clerics act like they can't get anything done without her. I don't know how she deals with them every day."

"Liberal amounts of honeyed wine," Cassandra says, squinting at her cards. She taps a finger against her lips. "That, and binge shopping for shoes." She slaps a card down and takes a sip of her tea.

Varric coughs. "Well, that's better than what she used to do," he says. "Pretty sure she had people killed for stress relief purposes back in the day."

Tyrn runs a hand through his snow-colored hair as he considers his next move. "She's certainly not as... _severe_ as she was, back then." He blinks, thumbing through his hand. "Not that I can really blame her. She had a lot to process at the time."

"Yeah."

The elf settles on a card and lays it down with an air of uncertainty. "Still though, I'm glad she was able to stop by. And she gave us some pointers on training Alistair." He frowns tightly, unsure if "training" is the right word, considering the fact that the cub is a wild animal. Perhaps "acclimating" or simply "caring for" would be more appropriate.

"Speaking of Alistair…." Varric glances around the room. "Where did I put my gloves?"

Cassandra chuckles. "Don't worry, Varric. He's asleep—keeping my feet warm, too." Her lips quirk up as she peeks under the table to confirm that the pup is snoozing on top of her feet, his tiny ribcage expanding and contracting with each breath.

"Oh, good." Varric grins as he takes a long drink of his ale. "Gotta keep an eye on that one. Little rascal already chewed a hole in my favorite jacket." Seeing that it's his turn, the dwarf chooses a card and puts it in play.

Just then, there is a series of thumps against the front window, accompanied by a cacophony of raspy squawks. The three turn to see an abnormally large raven slapping his wings against the glass; an oblong package is gripped firmly in his talons.

"Ah, speaking of Nightengale," Varric scoots out from the table and heads for the door. "Perfect timing." He saunters outside and takes the package from the raven's claws. Tyrn and Cassandra hear him say: "Glad to see you're still flying, Baron Plucky." The old bird snaps at the collar of Varric's jacket. "And you're still a prickly old bastard, too. Well, here—" He pulls something resembling a cracker from his pocket and holds it out for the raven to gobble up. "There you go, you old shit." The raven caws loudly in the dwarf's ear before taking off with a rush of air and a click of his talons.

Varric closes the door behind him with an amused grunt, plops the mysterious package on Tyrn's lap, and returns to his spot across the table.

Tyrn gives him a look of surprise. "What's this?"

"Mmm," Varric grunts and takes a swig of ale. "Just a little something Leliana helped me procure. For both of you." He nods to the couple, urging them to open it.

Cassandra leans closer as her husband unties the package and pulls away the wrappings. "Sweet Maker," she says. "They're beautiful."

"Varric, I...don't know what to say. Are these _dragon bone_?" Tyrn pulls the gleaming sword up and turns it over several times before handing it to Cassandra. Beneath it lies another, shorter blade.

"Yep."

The weapons seem to glow when the light hits them—fierce and fiery red-orange. In direct sunlight, they are so bright that it is almost as if dragonfire has been captured and sealed within the metal's core. At the smaller blade's base is a new fixture for Tyrn's residual arm. It is lined with a thick layer of soft, supple leather, and adjustments have been made to the straps for a better fit. "We, uh, thought you might need a new one, since your last one was shattered and all…."

Cassandra examines her sword with shaking hands; it will be awhile before she can properly wield it. Still, she runs a finger along the surface. It is warm to the touch. "Maker's breath," she whispers. "Varric, thank you. This is...I mean, I didn't expect them to arrive so quickly."

The dwarf tips his chin up, peering at the ceiling. "Well, between Leliana and I, there were more than enough strings to pull." He blinks warmly. "Don't worry about it. Figured you two could use a little pick me up after all the shit you've been through in the last few weeks."

Tyrn glances over at his wife. "Wait...you were in on this?"

"I've only known for a few days," she answers, dipping her head. "Varric approached me after the blades were already in the process of being forged. You were outside with Alistair at the time, I think."

"Yeah," Varric chimes in. "I didn't want to spoil the surprise for her, but I needed her help with a finishing detail."

"And what was that?" Tyrn smiles down at his weapon. There's no way this one will break on him, as his last one did. Dragon bone is renowned for its near indestructibility.

Varric clears his throat. "Well, uh, I figured that weapons like these deserved some good names. Something significant for the two of you." He presses his lips together in a rare expression of uncertainty. "Cassandra gave me some suggestions, so...I had them engraved near the hilt."

Cassandra squints at her sword. There, in small, delicate script along the blade's edge, just above the hilt, is engraved the name _Maker's Light_. She smiles as she waits for Tyrn to read his.

" _Shattered Night_ ," the elf whispers, and she can see his suspicion when he leans in to read hers. His eyes raise to hers as a grin tugs at his lips, the memory of that evening in Skyhold's grove—and the significance of the poem these names are derived from—warms the tips of his pointed ears. "They're perfect, Cass. I couldn't have come up with better names myself."

Relieved and gratified by his approval, Cassandra's chest blossoms with warmth. She rests _Maker's Light_ on her lap and leans forward to place a fleeting kiss on her husband's forehead.

Across the table, Varric clears his throat. "Right, well, I was personally leaning toward _Stumpy's Sticker_ , but you know...it wasn't quite as poignant."

Tyrn snorts in amusement as he sits up and lays the new blade aside for the moment. "Probably a good choice. I don't think I would've been able to use it without laughing if you had gone with that one...in which case I would've had a hell of a time trying to hunt."

Cassandra chuckles, scooping up her hand of cards with a decisive grunt. "We should probably get back to the game before Varric's blush becomes permanent."

"Pfft. It's just the ale," the dwarf quips, punctuating his argument with another drink and a hearty belch.

"Ugh."

* * *

Several hours later—long past the time when the ale runs out and the tea grows cold and the sun dips below the pine-riddled horizon—Varric slaps his remaining cards down and stares at the table, mouth agape in genuine (and rare) shock.

"Holy shit, Seeker," he sputters. "You won!"

Cassandra peers at him with an expression akin to that of a kitten with a bellyfull of milk. "I told you I would," she purrs. Tyrn rests his own cards against the table and watches the unfolding exchange with increasing interest.

"No, I mean...you _actually_ won." Varric taps his empty mug against the table as he leans forward. "Like, fair and square."

"Well, obviously. Do you think I'm one to cheat?" Cassandra raises a skeptical eyebrow.

Varric snorts. "No, but last time...well, I _let_ you win! But this? This is...I have to say, I am honestly impressed. Shit."

"You did _what_?"

"Whoops."

Tyrn recognizes the signs of impending doom for his dwarven friend and swiftly pulls himself up from the table. "Well, that was a great game, everybody. Now I think it's time for us to retire, dear…."

Cassandra reaches for the nearest projectile—her empty tea mug—with a trembling arm, her expression morphing into that of a murderous lioness. "Oh, you are _so_ lucky I'm not at my best, Varric, you little—"

Tyrn casually knocks the mug away with his elbow as he leans over her, preparing to scoop her up, and Varric runs for cover in the kitchen.

Cassandra grunts as her husband lifts her from the chair and into his arms. "Wait, what are you doing?" Her brow is scrunched into a wavering line, caught somewhere in between the modes of "justice must be served" and "hopeful expectation".

"I think you deserve a reward for tonight's victory, don't you?" Tyrn asks, holding her trembling form securely as he makes for the bedroom.

She relaxes slightly, giving in to her urge to laugh, and snuggles closer to his chest. "I suppose that depends. What did you have in mind?"

"Well," he begins, the gentle purr of his voice producing a pleasant _hum_ where her ear is pressed against his chest, "first, I'm going to draw you a hot bath…."

Varric's exasperated snort rings from the safety of the kitchen. "Alright you two, I think I'll take Cassandra's beating over your excessive sap!"

Tyrn laughs, throwing his friend a backward glance as they near the end of the hall. "What? I was going to say that I would read her some poetry, Varric. Must you always jump to conclusions?"

The dwarf snorts again, louder this time. "Oh go on, you lovebirds. Maker's ass…I'm sleeping out here tonight."

Cassandra giggles as Tyrn opens the bedroom door and carries her inside with a mirthful laugh, the cadence of their joy echoing through the walls of the peaceful home.

* * *

 **The end! (or, perhaps, another beginning?) Anyway, a small note: the inspiration for the names of the blades comes from the poem "Carmenum di Amatus", which is read in-game by Cassandra and the Inquisitor. Therefore, it belongs to Bioware. For reference, the lines I chose from go like this: "His lips on mine speak words not voiced, a prayer / Which travels down my spine like flames that shatter night. / His eyes reflect the heavens' stars, the Maker's light." Super sappy, but given the story, I think it's fitting.**

 **Well, thank you again to everyone who has read this! It has been a joy and an adventure to write, and I hope you guys have enjoyed the (kinda short) journey. I love these characters, and I hope I did them justice. God bless!**


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